


With A Clouded View (Narnia - Lucy/Susan)

by prunesquallormd



Category: Chronicles of Narnia
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prunesquallormd/pseuds/prunesquallormd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The loneliness comes like the blood, unheralded and without warning. She doesn't recognise the ache that overwhelms her. She knows only that she's lost something, and she couldn't even say what it is."</p><p>Lucy is 16 years old, lonely and aching for she knows not what. All unsuspecting, her yearnings lead her in the most unexpected and inconvenient directions. Romance, political complications, and sibling awkwardness ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She can barely remember her life before, in that other place, that other world. All her memories are of Narnia: spring-time on the Dancing Lawns; the morning sun glinting on the sea, viewed from an upper window of Cair Paravel; summer rains and winter frosts. Parties and receptions, the drudgery of rule (although Narnia governs itself, really) and all its related joys. She wakes in the night sometimes, grasping vainly at fast-fading dreams of somewhere _other_ ; somewhere louder, harder, dirtier. They don't linger for long, though, and she never recalls them when she reaches full wakefulness.

For years she doesn't know to be lonely for her own kind. Why would she? She has her brothers and her sister; her friends and her companions and her subjects. She's happy. She's loved. She wants for nothing.

The loneliness comes like the blood, unheralded and without warning. She doesn't recognise the ache that overwhelms her. She knows only that she's lost something, and she couldn't even say what it is. Her tutors are knowledgeable and caring. But they're not human. They can't know what it's like. They just can't.

Her brothers are no more use. They seem always to have been grown up. They've moved from puppy fat to lean, energetic manhood with no evidence of the turmoil that Lucy is experiencing. And besides, her education may be lacking in some areas but in simple biology she's been supplied reasonably well. She knows they're different. She just doesn't know what that _means_.

That leaves her sister. Susan, to whom she has always told everything. Susan: understanding, infuriating, compassionate, bossy, kind, condescending, gentle. Most of the time Lucy doesn't know whether to hug or slap her, to smile or to scream. But she _needs_ her. She can't imagine being without her.

**

“I don't think you understand how important it is to know this, Your Majesty,” Shatterstaff says, his brow furrowing with something close to exasperation. “Narnia's relationships with her neighbours are of the utmost importance to her security, and as queen you need to grasp their intricacies.” If he condescends to her it's only because his entire race knows itself to be the most learned in the whole kingdom. Lucy knows he can't help his upbringing.

Lucy is 16 years old, a queen – if she is honest – in name only. There is little she wants to know about less than _this_. She purses her lips, fixing the centaur with a glare, drumming her fingers on the table. He stumbles to a halt, squirming under her gaze.

“Would you care to tell me precisely why I need to know the exact tonnage of our exports to Calormen, Shatterstaff? Or the name of the Tisroc's third wife? Is anything you're telling me intended to be useful for anything? Or are my darling siblings so intent on keeping me out from under their feet that they would have you waste both your time and mine?” Lucy's voice, calm at first, becomes more irate as she continues. “Why are you telling me this?”

  
She stands so violently that her chair falls backwards and concludes her outburst at a level barely less than a scream. “And why won't you actually tell me anything that will help? What are you for? What's the point of you if you can't help me?”

His face remains impassive but she can see the hurt in his eyes. She flees as her tears begin to fall, the door slamming behind her.

She hurts everyone. It's right that they should hate her.

The stables are less than five minutes away (Lucy is grateful, briefly, that centaurs are less than comfortable with stairs) and this side of the castle is quiet at mid-morning. Now, if only …

Lucy turns a corner and stops short, her path blocked by Tumnus and a flushed looking Edmund, sword in hand, clearly fresh from the exercise yard. Edmund grins at her.

“Ah, little sis. Just the person we need. Tumnus is being _wrong_ again. Perhaps you can make him see sense.”

Lucy doesn't even respond. She can't. She knows the tears she's holding back will overwhelm her if she does. She shakes her head, pushing past them.

“Hang it, Lu. Have a care, will you?” Edmund says sharply. “Hey, what's up?”

He's speaking to her back, though. She knows she's being unforgivably rude. She finds she doesn't care.

**

It's ten minutes' hard ride to the outskirts of the forest, half an hour more to a suitable glade. She has passed no one – human or animal – since Tumnus and her brother. It doesn't surprise her. She radiates anger, distress and dislike like a dark sun; many of her subjects are sensitive to such things. And besides, so few of Narnia's human inhabitants have returned from exile, even now. A hundred years of winter, banished overnight? There are some, still, who believe that victory came too easily to be final. As a result, Narnia's human population is tiny. Just big enough to remind Lucy of her loss.

Sliding from the saddle onto close-cropped grass Lucy loops the reins over the branch of a birch tree and sinks to the ground. The sun will be high soon. The shadows invite her in. She accepts their embrace, finally allowing her tears to come. They are brief but bitter. Sleep claims her before they pass.

She is momentarily disoriented when she awakes. The ground is lumpy and cold, and her discomfort is only intensified by the aching behind her eyes. She is certain she's outside, yet voices – soft, playful, musical – ripple nearby. She eases her eyes open. Her first sight offers no clue to the source of the sound. Holly, her mare, is lying beside her, nibbling at the grass. Lucy can't tell how long she's been asleep. The shadows are deeper; the leaves of the birch trees are a darker green, approaching black.

There is still a chill in her bones now that echoes the one in her heart. The warm spring day will be gone soon enough and Lucy will regret leaving the castle in such haste. Her tunic and breeches (her subjects have long since ceased to be scandalised by her choice of attire though her brothers still rib her over it) are made for comfort, not warmth. Lucy suppresses a shiver and rolls, so, so slowly onto her back, still looking for the source of the sound.

She isn't sure what she's looking at at first, it takes her a little while for her vision to resolve into a picture that she understands, and even then she can't quite comprehend what she is seeing.  
Before her is a mass of pale limbs and green hair, snaking and writhing with, every so often, a flash of torso and soft breasts. The sounds that overlay the images – playful laughter, breathy moans, low gasps – fascinate Lucy as much as the scene before her. She had thought herself familiar with the ways of dryads. This, though, is something she has never dreamed of. She watches, entranced. It's too beautiful; she couldn't avert her eyes even if she wanted to. Her breath is coming faster now, it's almost painful to stay quiet, although she is certain that the dryads wouldn't care that she is watching. The chill is forgotten, and there is a warmth between her legs that she has only felt before on awakening from fleeting, all too quickly forgotten dreams.

Heat pooling in her belly, Lucy presses her thighs together, shifting in a discomfort that's simply _not_. She knows that, here of all places, her responses are of no consequence. There is no decorum to upset, no court to scandalise. She is alone in the only sense that she doesn't find unbearable these days: in the company of people who don't know her and care little for her presence. People who won't observe, judge, advise and comment.

Two bodies break away from the writhing mass of limbs then, crawling, giggling, towards Lucy. Their progress is slow, haphazard. They are so busy exploring each other that they seem entirely blind to their surroundings. Finally, here is clarity. Not a shadowed, confusing tangle of arms, legs and torsos, green hair blanketing everything. Instead, Lucy watches, spellbound, as one figure raises herself on her hands and knees, the other dipping her mouth to the apex of her thighs. Lucy's breath catches as a shaft of late afternoon sunlight illuminates a face, sheened with sweat, eyelids flickering, lips slightly parted. The dryad's breathing is soft and quick, punctuated with moans that are almost musical, and Lucy can't help but think that it's simply beautiful.

She feels something tighten low in her belly; senses a growing wetness between her legs. Her heart is racing and her own breathing is as quick as that of the figures before her. Unthinking, she drops a hand to the source of her _almost_ discomfort, unlacing her breeches and slipping it inside. She can't help but gasp at the heat and slickness she finds there. The gasp penetrates the distraction of the form before her; her eyes flicker open, catching Lucy's and holding them. Lucy feels herself flush even further, her face prickling with embarrassment. And yet she cannot avert her eyes. They're locked helplessly, staring into the other's eyes that are vibrantly green and seem to alternate between sharp focus and near blindness. Lucy is blinking rapidly now, but each time her eyes open she is caught again by the dryad's gaze.

She presses hard against herself, her hand moving awkwardly, caught as it is between her body and her only partly unlaced clothing. Her fingers slip-slide through soft hair, against hot, wet flesh as she tries, unthinking, desperate, to soothe the ache that is growing there. Jolts pass through her as she brushes once, twice, three times, against a tiny bundle of almost-fire. She shifts her focus there, rubbing the side of her palm roughly and inexpertly against the source of those shuddering flashes of… what? She _thinks_ it's pleasure but it's so unlike anything she's ever experienced, she can't even put a word to it.

Lucy has had no real sense of the passing of time since she entered this clearing, the dappled green shadows have frozen her within a single unending _now_. Her reality is marked out by the rapidly cooling, uneven ground beneath her; the roughness of her palm against the sodden, pulsing heat between her legs; the face – beautiful, yearning, vulnerable – before her; and her own breathing, intertwining with, and indistinguishable from, the gentle, hissing rasp of the figure before her.

And then it happens. The dryad's mouth has fallen open, her eyes widening one last time before drifting closed. She releases a high stuttering cry and, almost as if her arms can no longer support her weight, her elbows buckle and she drops, shaking uncontrollably. Lucy winces as she catches fingernails in tender skin and, with one last, almost violent, stroke, she is overtaken. Her body tightens and releases in waves and she squeezes her eyes tightly. She can't breathe, her voice is gone, she can focus on nothing but the sensations overwhelming her. Each haphazard stroke sets off another wave, and another, until she comes to a juddering stop, allowing her body to still completely.

She drifts for a while then, eyes open just far enough that she can watch the two before her embrace tenderly. For now, at least, she no longer feels alone.

**

It gets better in some ways and, in others, so much worse. The images haunt Lucy constantly, although she doesn't return to the grove; isn't sure if she would find them again if she did. A kiss had roused her from her stupor – she's as certain of that as she can be of anything – but she opened her eyes to nothing but dappled sunlight on lush grass, the trees moving gently in a breeze she couldn't feel. She doesn't return, except in dreams, waking and sleeping, and she sees them then, foam green hair and soft white skin, long limbs and small breasts. And with each repetition, her reactions become more intense and her fingers more practised.

She knows nothing. She has been taught _nothing_. And yet, she's not ashamed. Shame, too, requires knowledge, of a kind. She's only now understanding how little of that she has.

**

Spring blooms into summer. The days are warm and gentle; rarely too hot, occasionally rain-lashed, often blessed by the breath of the Great Eastern Ocean. More and more, Lucy craves solitude. It isn't hard to find in Cair Paravel (Lucy often wonders who built this place and why there are _so many_ rooms), but a queen's time – even that of a 16 year-old one – is all too often not her own.  
Those first few years they had ruled in name only. Nothing in their lives had prepared them for _this_ and even Peter – confident going on arrogant at the best of times – could see that they were out of their depth. He has grown into the crown that was thrust upon him, they all have, and he is ever keen that Lucy will be queen in fact as well as name. Lucy loves him for that – sometimes at least. Now though? Now it's a curse.  
In deference to the centaurs who most often use it, the library of Cair Paravel is on the ground floor. Lucy curses that too. She comes here for distraction, and finds it often enough, but she is all too easily discovered.  
The flora and fauna of Narnia is spread out before her, all the extraordinary array of her subjects. Volume after volume, exquisitely detailed, the life's work of a hundred, a thousand, long-forgotten scholars. Narnia may take little enough governing, but, when it does, she will be ready to play her part, and she will know her people. She tells herself that that's the whole reason she is here. She tells herself she doesn't linger over the pictures of the ladies of the court, all elegance and hauteur, and of the naiads and dryads, earthy and open and beautiful. And she turns the page when the door opens.

Peter storms into the room, a curse on his lips. A taller man, sandy haired and a few years older, is on his heels.

“By the Lion's Mane, Rhyddion, did they think they'd get away with it? Do they think, just because Narnia no longer summarily executes its subjects, that we've somehow become soft? If the Tisroc thinks that we can be bullied into this he's going to be sorely disappointed.”

Lucy has rarely seen Peter so angry. She closes the book before her quietly and rests her chin on her palm, studying him intently. She wonders how long it will take him to realise that she's there.

Rhyddion responds quietly, ever a calming presence. “My Prince, do you really think he expects you to cave in to his demands? The Tisroc has been doing this for longer than you and I have been alive. It's part of the negotiations, nothing more. He demands more from you than you could ever possibly give, you counter. If he's lucky, you'll end up conceding more than you would have and still believe that you're getting a good deal.

“It's the politics of the market place, Peter. If you let him get to you, you lose. Really, don't you understand that by now?” Rhyddion finishes, a hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter relaxes, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh, I know, Rhydd. I just can't help it, sometimes. It's just... Ach, thank the Lion I've got you, eh, old friend? I'm telling you, if the Tisroc expects me to marry that harridan of a daughter of his ...” Peter says, almost shuddering.

Rhyddion laughs, cuffing Peter gently round the shoulder. He raises his eyes then, seeing Lucy apparently for the first time. He bows slightly, his easy smile not leaving his lips for a second.

“Your Majesty. I'm sure we apologise for the interruption. I'm afraid your royal brother was a little blind-sided by some of the demands of the Calormene delegation. We thought it best to adjourn for a while before we ended up sparking a war.” He can barely keep the smirk from his face.

Peter glares at him before he speaks. “Don't listen to Rhyddion, Lu. We were at least half a day away from declaring war,” he says. “We really are sorry to disturb. Aslan, this castle's big enough. How is it so hard to find an empty room?”

Lucy quirks a smile at them, her chin still in her hand. She's circling the middle finger of her right hand on the desk. “Well, really. You thought that the _library_ would be empty? I don't know what that says about your opinion of the rest of us.” She pauses for a moment, enjoying the look on Peter's face as he realises that – yet again – he's somehow unwittingly offended her. “I don't blame you for being riled, though. Every time I meet the Calormene ambassador, I'm sure he's sizing me up as potential marriage material. Ugh. Horrible.”

Peter grimaces, looking dangerously like the recently dispersed storm is about to return. “You, too?” he says, no trace of humour in his voice. “Sometimes I swear the Tisroc is determined to tie us all up in a nice little dynastic knot. You should see the way they look at Susan.” He shakes his head and sighs heavily. “Rhyddion, would you be so good as to cover for me for the rest of the afternoon? Tell His Excellency I've been taken ill, or something. I believe that the best thing for both our countries at this point would be if I spend a nice peaceful afternoon with my youngest sibling.”

Rhyddion smiles indulgently. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing ever so slightly. “If you'll excuse me, I have an entire diplomatic mission to lie to.” From the look on his face, Lucy is fairly certain that he's relishing the prospect.

**

The gardens of Cair Paravel are beautiful, always. It's a beauty that's lost on Lucy as she walks with Peter the length of the Yew Alley that's long been one of her favourite spots. She would flee if she didn't know it would make their next meeting all the more awkward.

“It's been months, Lu.” They're arm in arm; she can't escape. “Shatterstaff tells me that your studies are suffering. The Lion knows that you haven't been the most _gracious_ queen recently. And Su and Ed tell me you'll hardly look at them, let alone talk, and you certainly don't talk to me. ”

She's trying to ease her arm from his, as tactfully as she can. There's no way to do it without him noticing though. He releases her with a sigh.

“What's wrong? We're worried. _I'm_ worried. Why won't you talk to us?”

“Oh, Peter, what makes you think anything's wrong? A girl just needs her peace and quiet sometimes, that's all. Surely Su's told you that.” She laughs, trying for light and carefree. She winces inwardly at the sound. Too much. She can tell from his pained expression that he doesn't believe her for a moment.

“Sometimes? Hang it, Lucy, didn't you hear me say it's been months?” he says, very nearly snapping at her now. He opens his mouth again, drawing a harsh breath, readying himself. He loses his chance, though, as Lucy rounds a bend in the alley, a stride ahead of him.

The alley opens onto a wide, walled lawn, bordered by cherry trees and roses. Archery targets are set at the far end of the lawn. The sun is well past its zenith but the lawn is protected from the wind, and even the lengthening shadows do little to cool it. A lone bird sings in a cherry tree, undismayed by the oncoming voices. Peter's voice has stilled now, though. And Lucy? She couldn't find her voice now if she tried.

Susan is alone in the garden. She has her back to Lucy, a bow raised and at full draw. She sights along the arrow, almost kissing her fingers. Out of courtesy, both Peter and Lucy are silent (they will be until she takes her shot, however long that may be). They are still, studying Susan's form as she considers her shot (Lucy loves to shoot, she feels that it's one of the few things she's truly good at). Susan's arms are bare, save for a guard on her left forearm. The tension there, and in her shoulders, isn't betrayed by so much as a quiver.

Lucy smiles. Archery hasn't come easily to Susan. She's practised hard to get here, and Lucy is surprised for a moment by a feeling of pride. She maintains her regard, looking at her sister fondly. She's wearing a simple dress in a red that complements her skin and hair (as pale, and as dark, as they've always been). Lucy's always loved it, and she's more than a little envious of how beautifully Susan wears it. Her eyes travel the tensed left arm, taking in the swell of her chest – and only there is there the slightest movement, an oh-so-slight rise and fall. There is tension in Susan's throat too; it appears unyielding, like marble. A strand of hair has escaped the single braid and curls down her neck, falling forward over her shoulder. Lucy fights the urge to approach so that she can tuck it behind her ear. (She knows well enough not to approach anyone with a bow at full draw, thank you _so_ much.)

Lucy drops her gaze, smiling, amused at her own internal monologue, to see that Susan's feet are bare, as they so often are. Unbidden, an image flashes into her mind of those same feet in her lap as she soothes away the tensions of another day. She has good fingers; Susan has always said so.

The heat that rises in her belly is intense and entirely unexpected. A single image flashes to her mind, of long, smooth limbs, entangled in dappled shadows, overlain with breathless sighs. She shakes her head, desperately attempting to dispel it from her mind, but already the blush has begun to rise up her neck, spreading onto her cheeks.

She doesn't know where to look. Peter, to her left, is smiling easily. He turns the smile on Lucy, and, Aslan, her face is burning. She can't even meet his eyes. Turning back to Susan, who, with an easy motion of three fingers, has finally released her arrow, Lucy takes in the relaxation of her shoulders, the long-drawn breath that swells her chest even further. As the arrow strikes its target – a little off-centre, but a respectable shot – Susan turns to her audience. She looks at Lucy first, a welcoming smile on her full lips.

Lucy feels a pooling in her lower belly, a heat that is almost unbearable. She can do nothing other. She turns and flees.

**

Her bedroom door remains closed and locked for the rest of the day and all of that night. Susan ceases her knocking after a while (Peter hasn't even tried, recognising, perhaps, that in this he's certainly out of his depth). The few servants who have business there have been warned not to try by the first, to whom Lucy gave the shortest of shrifts ( _and, oh, that's just wonderful, thank you. That guilt to worry about, too?_ ).  
Lucy is sleepless, confused, guilt-stricken (and she's not even really sure over what, not _really_ ). She seeks solace in her own body, tracing ever more knowing fingers down her belly, stroking in quick circles, middle finger and index firmly gripping. Still she slips in her own wetness, more than once falling away from her release, so maddeningly close. She forces the images that so often grace her dreams, and her reveries, to replay in the space just behind her eyes. She never tires of them, has found release the same way so many times. It's been months since that day in the forest, though. The images have become more than a simple memory. It's a fantasy now, part memory, part dream, part hope. Over and over. Repetition, variation and addition. Flesh, and hair, and soft, smooth, intertwining limbs.  
She feels herself becoming dry beneath her fingers, and reaches desperately for that final image that will unravel her, ignoring the tenderness that threatens. It happens before she can stop it. The swell of a breast in profile, framed by arm and yew. A curve of full red lips in a smile of welcome. Black hair, pale skin, green eyes. Lucy comes undone in waves, tensing and releasing under her own fingers, biting her lip hard so as not to cry out.

She doesn't sleep. The summer nights are short. Lucy has never passed a longer one.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I have a few issues with C. S. Lewis (especially [his treatment of Susan](http://prunesquallormd.livejournal.com/35050.html)) and a fondness for fictional incest. This story reflects both those things.  
>  Endless thanks to my betas: [](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/)**perverbially** , without whose enthusiasm and support I'd never have had the courage to post this, and someone else, who'd rather remain nameless, but who will always remain awesome :) ♥
> 
>  **Dedication** This is for [](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/profile)[**likecharity**](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/), who's fab, and whose [The Night Starts Here](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/20373.html) is one of my fave things ever :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucy is guilt-ridden and Edmund is infuriating.

The knock - different this time, neither hesitant nor peremptory - comes a few hours after sunrise. If it's possible that a knock can be good humoured, then this is it. Three beats. Fist, not knuckles.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." The faintest memory of a game from their old lives, it sounds faintly ridiculous as Edmund speaks it, his voice deep and laughing. "If you think I'm going away just because you refuse to answer your door, little sis, you're going to be very mistaken. And anyway, I'm king. Who's going to tell me that I can't stay here all blasted day? I'll tell you who: no one, that's who. I'll get my meals brought up here, if I have to. And eventually you're going to have to open up, because I know you can't climb out the window, even if you have tried more than once."  
Lucy tosses in her bed, for, oh _Aslan_ knows how many times it’s been that night. The sun found her in a twisted mess of bedclothes. She's thrown most of them off now, and she's curled, knees to her chest, clutching a single blanket. Her eyes feel sore and puffy and her head is aching. So many times she has cursed her own family over the last few months. This day is much like any other, at least as far as _that_ goes.  
The knock (knock? It sounds and feels like Edmund is trying to break through the door with his own fist) comes again.  
"Really, Lu, this isn't a joke. I mean to talk to you, and you really don't have that much choice in the matter, as far as I can see it. I can hold this conversation through the door, if you like. And well, if you don't want to contribute, there's nothing I can do about _that_. But I think you'll probably want to say _something_. Even if it's only to get me to shut up for a few minutes." Edmund is using his battle-field voice. It seems to vibrate her brain in her skull, and the Lion knows, it doesn't make her want to actually _talk_ to him. His isn't an empty threat though. He’s always been his own favourite conversationalist.

Lucy stares at the ceiling, all midnight blue and decorated with the constellations that have become so familiar to her. And once again, she curses quietly to herself. When she raises her voice in answer, the pain in her head becomes a brief, lancing fire. She winces and tries again.  
“Ed, is there no way at all that I can persuade you to go away for the moment? I'll come and find you later, honestly, and you can talk at me to your heart's content.”

Edmund is quiet for a few seconds, long enough that Lucy starts to hope that he might have decided to leave her in peace. But no, this is Edmund. She should know better. Still, his voice is less _stentorian_ when next he speaks. Lucy offers up her thanks for that, at least.

“Lu, I understand, I really do. Whatever's wrong, I know you'd rather not talk about it and I accept that. But just … Let me in, will you? If you don't want to say anything then don't, but it might help, have you thought of that?”

“All _right_ ,” Lucy says, her voice sharp enough that it sets her head to throbbing once more. “At least let me get dressed, will you?”

She rolls out of bed when no reply comes, taking a few minutes to locate the clothes she had thrown off the night before. (She feels the heat rise in her face just thinking about the previous day). She's never been one for maid-servants and dresses and she's grateful for it now. Just the thought of having to deal with those resolutely incurious, ever-watching eyes makes her uncomfortable. Bad enough with a clean conscience, but _now_?  
She throws on a long tunic and loosely knots a robe over it, and curls up in the window-seat to stare silently out to sea. It is early still, the sun isn't nearly high and it throws a glittering road on the waves below. Even with the ache in her head, Lucy finds it calming.

“Come in, then, if you must.”

For all the vigour of his initial gambit Edmund's next move is blessedly restrained. Lucy had expected to feel the door shaking in its hinges, but no. With unwonted discretion and an audible double-click Edmund is there, in her sanctuary, curiosity vying with concern in his gaze. He's dressed for the hunt. (He so often is. He does so love to hunt, even if the softness of his heart regularly ensures that no actual quarry is taken in the sport. Mostly – and he's told Lucy this more often than she'd like – he loves to ride. The rest is simply dressing). There's a flush to his skin and a brightness in the eyes that he absolutely won't take from Lucy's face. A king, or a queen, looks all in the eyes, unashamed and unflinching. Lucy remembers the lesson, she is simply unable to put it into practice. Her eyes flicker to the wall above Edmund's head, to the blue of sea and sky outside her window. The ache in her temples protests the constant movement but it fights a losing battle with the prickings of her conscience.

There is silence. Seconds that stretch to minutes, and minutes to well, not hours perhaps, but to Lucy it starts to seem that way. She stops even pretending to look at her brother, focuses on the gulls, raucous and demanding, beyond the glass. (She wishes she could join them. Anywhere is better than _here_ ). She knows the tactic well, has seen Edmund use it to great effect so many times before. She always wondered at its success. No longer. She sighs, finally looking over at him, leaning against her door with a nonchalance belied only by the sharp brightness of his eyes on hers.

“Please, Edmund, don't do that. I'm your sister, not your subject. If you have something to say, just say it.” She hates how tiny her voice sounds, and how close to tears.

He drops his eyes, smiling. “ _Aslan_ , I'm sorry. I don't realise I'm doing it now, most of the time. Once a king, always a king, I suppose.”

Running a hand through unruly dark hair, he finally detaches himself from her door. Her bed is a mess but that doesn't stop him throwing himself face-first onto it, bouncing gently for a few moments before he pulls himself into a sitting position. He greets Lucy's look of reproach with a grin, his tongue flickering briefly. He looks so young in that moment, like a naughty schoolboy.

“We've all been where you are now, you know,” he says, suddenly entirely serious; and, when Lucy's only response is a wide-eyed stare, eyebrows creeping up her forehead, “Oh, you know what I mean. It's not easy, we all know that. Dash it, I'm not that much older than you. I remember what it's like. And I won't say it gets better overnight, but it _does_ get better. It's slow, and I'll admit that there are still times when I'm convinced that I'm the worst person in the world and everybody hates me.  
And then there's all the changes and stuff, and it's confusing and, well, there it is,” he finishes, all in a rush, his eyes on the floor, clearly wishing himself to be anywhere but here, now. Lucy's sure that he would rather charge an Ettin warband, unarmed and single-handed, than have this conversation with her. She almost feels sorry for him. Not enough to soften the look she gives him, but _almost_.

“Oh, stop! Good grief, Ed, what do you think this is? I'm 16 years old, you know. You _do_ know that, don't you? Not 11? And yes, I've had that conversation. Actually, I've had it twice. Once with Susan and once with Shatterstaff. The first time I thought it couldn't possibly get any more embarrassing. I was wrong, though.” Lucy laughs bitterly. “Shatterstaff. Can you imagine?”

Edmund's discomfiture disappears almost instantly as he struggles to control a snort. He's always done the most perfect impression of the royal tutor. “Sometimes, when a mummy centaur and a daddy centaur love each other very much, they hug each other in a special way and ...”

“Edmund!” Lucy's snort echoes Edmund's own as he sputters himself to a stop.

They're both silent for a moment, Lucy doing her best not to dwell on the image that her brother has conjured. At least it offers a relief from the other, so much more disturbing, images. The tension is gone, though, spiked with their mutual mortification. Ed lets himself fall back onto the bed, suddenly boneless.

“Well, thank the Lion for that. Su said it wouldn't be that but, well. I thought I'd better make sure. I do remember how confusing it gets.”

Lucy is relieved that Edmund isn't looking her in the eye now as she studies his face from the least flattering of angles, her brows knitted, remembering. A two year age gap is not so very much, and she recalls vividly the troubles of his transition to manhood. Or, to put it more accurately, the absence of them. Is she being unfair? There had been a particularly nasty sprained ankle, the result of a poor dismount, that had cursed him for weeks around the time of – what was it? - his 14th birthday; a few months when his voice had resolutely refused to behave itself, and then? Nothing. A child to a man, almost overnight. She feels her eyes sting, the rawness in her throat. Oh, for the love of the Lion, won't this ever stop?

Edmund looks up suddenly, craning his neck to catch her gaze before she can avert it. “So then! Now that we've established what it's not, would you like to tell me what it _is_? You can, you know. I won't blab. Not even to our ever so sincere and ever so concerned royal brother!”

She remains silent for a few moments longer, eyes still far wider than they have any right to be, and simply _imagines_. The sheer horror of it turns her insides to ice and her skin to fire. She wants to die. So, not that then.  
Instead, she takes a deep breath and tells him what he wants to hear. Oh, it's the truth too, but so far from being the whole truth as to be a different world.

“Don't you ever get lonely, Ed? Don't you ever just want someone you can tell everything to? Someone who's yours?” Oh, even this is excruciating enough. It's her turn to stare at the floor now. She can't bear to see Edmund's face, isn't sure whether sympathy or condescension would be the less welcome response.

Apparently he's settled on understanding with an undertone of breezy good humour. So _very_ Edmund.

“Oh Lu, is that what the problem's been all this time? You silly goose, of course I do! It's hard enough anyway, I think, even if you don't have a country to rule.” Edmund is far more relaxed. He's identified the problem, now he just has to solve it.

Lucy returns her eyes to the ocean, her face hot.

“I'm 16 and I've never been kissed. I hate it! I hate feeling this way.”

She jumps silently at Edmund's touch. For all his brashness he can move so quietly at times, and he touches her so gently. He stares silently into the distance, his hands a comforting presence on her shoulders, his thumbs making the tiniest circles. The shock is brief and she relaxes sooner than she would have thought possible, her head against his side. Her breath slows and the urge to cry – or run – finally wanes. Lucy has never felt so grateful to him. Perhaps more than anything, she's grateful that he's stopped _talking_.

Side by side, they stare at the horizon, Lucy wishing she could disappear over it, Edmund … well, she's never been able to tell what Ed is thinking. She doesn't need to know. He's there. It's enough, for the moment.

“It's a lie that you've never been kissed, you know. I've seen you kiss Tumnus hundreds of times.” She can hear the smile in his voice but she still hits him, hard, in the side. He sputters slightly but stays where he is, his affection so much stronger than physical discomfort.

“Ed, stop it! Don't laugh at me, I don't think I can stand it. And you know I don't mean those sorts of kisses. That's disgusting!”

He chuckles quietly, squeezing her shoulder as he does so. “Sorry, just checking. There are lots of different kinds of kisses, after all. Of course, as your brother, I'd have to say that I don't think there's anyone I'd consider good enough for you to be kissing. The Lion knows there's little enough choice!”

“Well thank you, _brother_. That's very helpful. Where does that leave me, then?” Lucy can hear the bitterness in her voice, hates that it's there.

“Hey, hold on a moment. Let me finish, will you?” Edmund's poke is far gentler than her own assault, hardly even a tap. “I was going to say that that's what I think as your brother, but as your friend, well, that's different. I've seen the way Derren looks at you, for one thing. And ignoring the fact that I'd be honour-bound to knock him down if he so much as thought of kissing you, you could do a lot worse.”

Lucy can't help the way she twists to stare him in the eye.

“ _What_? Well, you could. He's handsome, witty, an excellent rider. And Rhyddion's little brother, to boot. _He'd_ be overjoyed. Peter too, I think.”

“Handsome? An excellent rider? Honestly, you'll be telling me he has good teeth next,” Lucy says, her voice sharp.

“Well, he does. Anyway, I'd have thought you'd consider that important if you're going to be to be kissing him!”

“Edmund! I am _not_ going to be kissing Rhyddion's little brother! Just listen to yourself for a moment.”

Edmund is not to be dissuaded. “Not Derren, then. I understand. But really, Lu, you're a queen of Narnia. That makes you about as eligible as can be. There's not a man within a thousand miles who'd say no to you. It's just a case of finding someone whom _you_ won't say no to.”

Lucy listens to him talk, all plans and excitement. So certain that he's helping. So, _so_ wrong. And then it happens.

“I have it! Oh, why didn't I think of it before? A ball! It will be your birthday in just a few months, and obviously you'll want a party. All we have to do is request the presence of every eligible bachelor of appropriate age and there you have it! I'm sure even Your Pickiness will see something you like. And we needn't tell them why they're really there, so you'll have all the time you need to make a choice. It's perfect!  
“You see, all you have to do is talk about them, and all your problems will be solved!” He sounds so pleased with himself.

Lucy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “Yes, Edmund. That's a wonderful idea. Thank you.”

He's so tied up in his plans that he doesn't even seem to notice that she is sighing as she says it. “All right, then. I'll start with the arrangements as soon as possible. There's nothing to be served by wasting time, after all. I'm sure Peter and Su will have all sorts of suggestions. Aren't you glad I insisted that you talk to me now?”

He leaves without waiting for her answer, murmuring to himself. Lucy, her eyes still closed, leans back in the window-seat and, very quietly, swears. She's not quite sure what just happened. She only knows that it's a complete disaster.

Oh _Aslan_. What now?

**

It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be _so much worse_. Day after day, Lucy repeats the words to herself, convinced that they're a lie, hoping that she'll eventually believe them all the same.  
She doesn't need to try to keep herself busy. She has her duties, her schooling, a castle that's never quiet, never entirely devoid of expectant advisers, important guests, diplomatic delegations to entertain and charm. She doesn't need to try to keep herself busy, but it's never quite enough. She would find it impossible to avoid her sister even if she wanted to, even if the thought didn't cause her actual physical pain. And so she schools her expression, laughs, smiles, gossips, scowls, bickers, is serious and playful. She is everything she always was. No one could guess how different she is. _Aslan_ , please let no one guess.

Edmund is true to his word. He doesn't utter a syllable of Lucy's 'problem' to their brother. She's grateful to him for that, even though she can't help feeling that it would be helpful to give Peter an answer to the questions that he no longer asks. She can feel him looking at her when he thinks she doesn't see, concern and query etched across his brow and shadowing his eyes. She's certain he sees through the facade. It makes her play her part all the harder. She doesn't know how long she can keep it up, and the thought of what might happen when the mask crumbles … Lucy can't bear to think of it. (She can't think of a way not to).

Lucy can't find it in herself to be completely infuriated with Edmund, although she really can't help thinking that he is having entirely too much fun. Not at her expense, exactly, but … Lucy has never asked for his help, and she watches the consequences of it unfolding before her eyes with quiet horror. She wants to stop it, she _has_ to stop it. And she would stop it, except that, now the questions have ceased. Not just from Peter, but entirely. Edmund has done his work (all unwitting) as well as he does anything that he sets his mind to, and now the only enquiries she receives are those pertaining to food, and guest lists, and music, and …  
“What kind of dancing would you like?”  
“What think you of the son of Lune's chancellor?”  
“I hear that the dashed Tisroc would like to send every one of his unmarried sons. I have informed his ambassador that, whatever rumours he may have heard, he can inform his master that they'll have a wasted journey. I take it you have no objections, Lu?”  
It takes him perhaps half a week to enlist Susan's aid. Some things require a woman's touch, he tells Lucy. She nods dumbly, eyes wide. It is her most common response to Edmund these days. She wonders when he'll recognise the look in her eyes (he must have seen it often enough, in the eyes of his four-legged quarry). But she wonders in vain. He saves all his insight for his subjects, apparently.

**

“I really thought that you might have your own ideas about this, Lu. I don't think that you have any idea how exhausting it all is.” Edmund is formally attired, and Lucy knows well that he's spent most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon deep in discussion with the Terebinthian delegation. Yet still the happiness of his younger sister is at the forefront of his mind.  
Well, isn't _that_ nice.

Lucy takes a moment to compose herself, her book shielding all but her eyes, which she closes for the tiniest handful of seconds. The bench on which she has spent most of the heat of the day is shaded and peaceful. Lucy would admit to no one (has only recently admitted to herself) that its attraction is greatly enhanced by the way it overlooks – just _so_ \- the rose gardens that are so favoured among the few ladies of the court. Perhaps half an hour before, she had watched as a group of Calormene maidservants had gossiped and laughed between themselves. (If they had noticed the attentions of their youngest host, they were the very embodiment of discretion). By the third strike of the hour, Lucy had turned the page of her book no more than four times.

She snaps the book shut. “I'm sorry, Edmund. I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” she says, her eyebrows assuming a position that has become seemingly habitual. (A nagging memory – the merest whisper of an echo – suggests to her that she may be in trouble if the wind changes. She really has no idea why).

He sits on the bench beside her and sighs deeply. “Honestly, Lucy. _Do_ you realise how exhausting it is? All so you can most likely reject everyone who could possibly be appropriate. And I really am trying to be discreet but it's nigh on impossible to stop the rumours. And meanwhile, I would never have imagined that the Terebinthians would drive such a hard bargain. I say we should just invade and have done with it.”

He leans against the tree at his back, sighing again, a sigh which turns into a wince as Lucy prods him sharply in the side.

“Edmund! Don't even joke about that!” she says, in her sternest voice. The effect is rather lessened by the yawn that overtakes her. “Really, I know how much you enjoy all this … diplomat-ing,” - Lucy ignores the amused eye that her brother cocks at her - “but there _are_ some who would take you at your word, you know.  
“And I wouldn't _dream_ of depriving you of all the pleasure you so clearly derive in trying to arrange my lovelife. That would be unforgivably selfish of me.” She knows that there's an edge to her voice, and she doesn't even try to hide it. Edmund – true to form – appears oblivious. “You _are_ going to invite some women to this wondrous spectacle that you're arranging in my honour, I hope. I can't be expected to entertain every man you see fit to invite.”

“Of course! What sort of a fool do you take me for? It would be a little odd, not to say a little _suspicious_ if we didn't, don't you think?” Edmund's eyes are closed again; he really does look exhausted. He doesn't see the exasperation in Lucy's face as she shakes her head, ever so slightly, or the look that replaces it as her eyes flicker gently over the forms of two Narnian women - she recognises them as the Ladies Rhiannon and Angharad – as they take the air in the Rose Walk. They stop for a moment to exchange pleasantries with Lilygloves the mole, his midnight black fur beautiful in the sunlight.

“Well then, as you and Susan seem to be having so much fun finding me a suitable mate, perhaps I should focus on the rest of the guest list. The women of the court will feel ever so neglected otherwise, I'm sure, and we really mustn't forget the rest of our subjects. Just because you can only marry me off to a Son of Adam doesn't mean that we can ignore everybody else!”

“Ah, of course,” Edmund replies with a laugh, seemingly deliberately misunderstanding her. “How else will you ensure that you have no inconvenient rivals?”

He winks at her, not at all serious, she is fully aware. That doesn't stop her briefly entertaining the fantasy of beating him soundly around the head with her book until he stops being so damnably annoying and so extraordinarily insensitive. She resists, with no little difficulty.

“Yes, brother. You've see through me again,” she says with a sigh. “However do you manage that?”

He doesn't reply. They sit in silence, separated by the smallest sliver of air, and a chasm so yawning that Lucy feels sick when she thinks of it. The sun westers, painfully slowly. It is late summer. Lucy contemplates the weeks to come. She had thought that her heart couldn't sink any further. How could she have been so wrong?  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken _for ever_ , and given that I posted the first part almost exactly 8 months ago, I can't imagine that anyone but me's still interested. But hey, it's now the longest story - and the only multi-chapter one- I've ever written and I'm having fun with it, so.  
> By the way, can anyone tell me why beavers would eat bacon, or how it's possible for a country to continue to feed itself after a hundred years of winter? Just two of _so many_ questions that have occurred to me in the months that this story has been going around my brain.
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta [](http://cobalt-siren.livejournal.com/profile)[**cobalt_siren**](http://cobalt-siren.livejournal.com/). And thanks too, to [](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/profile)[**perverbially**](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/) , [](http://sushizuzoru.livejournal.com/profile)[**sushizuzoru**](http://sushizuzoru.livejournal.com/) and [](http://jules2112.livejournal.com/profile)[**jules2112**](http://jules2112.livejournal.com/), who've been so supportive and just generally fabulous. ♥
> 
>  **Dedication:** Once again, this is for [](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/profile)[**likecharity**](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/), who does so much for Narnia fandom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucy has a dream, and comes to a decision.

She tries so hard not to think about it, not to think about anything at all, really. Where she was busy before, now she ensures that she has not a single moment to herself. She becomes the picture of sweet-natured enthusiasm. Even Edmund remarks on it, looking at her quizzically, eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

Susan takes her aside at the end of one particularly long day and hugs her tightly. “I'm _so_ glad to see you back to your old self again, dear,” she says happily, rocking Lucy in her arms and making any sort of gracious escape impossible. “I was so worried about you.”

Even then, Lucy's mask doesn't slip. Unable to conjure any sort of coherent response with her sister's arms so firmly around her, still she manages a soothing murmur in her ear. Released, she is all sweetness and civility. She has trained her feet not to flee, excusing herself only after a few more minutes of Susan's gentle probing. She is proud of the progress she has made, but still the night is long and restless.

Susan, it appears, has entirely convinced herself that Lucy has recovered from whatever mysterious malady had been afflicting her. Like Edmund, she throws herself into the preparations for Lucy's birthday party. (Lucy can't bear to think about it in any other way. The prospect is terrifying enough even before she has to face the bitter reality of what they have plannedfor her). It seems that her every spare moment is engaged in some detail or other. She is all smiles, so obviously enjoying herself that Lucy doesn't have the heart to say anything that might change that. She ignores the way that those smiles make her breath catch, bring a flush to her cheeks; she doesn't allow her eyes to linger on Susan's lips and the way that her face is transformed so entirely by the simple act of smiling.

Her eyes don't linger, but her memory and her imagination do. She wishes she could help herself. She can't.

**

There is no escape, even in sleep.

She has never really spoken of her dreams. She has always thought of them as special, private. Now she has other reasons not to speak of them. They besiege her, merely in abeyance in daylight, waiting for night and sleep to overtake her once more. Her awakenings are too often things of heat and sweat and aching. She eases the longing as best she can with practised fingers. It's an all too temporary relief.  
It is fitting then that Aslan, when he finally comes to her, comes at night.

**

  
It is autumn. Soft, gentle days and chill nights, ushered in by a brusque north-westerly wind. The weeks have scattered and Lucy considers the inevitable and ever-quickening approach of _the day_ with an unpleasant squirming in the pit of her stomach. The effort of maintaining the mask, of remaining her _old self_ , is ever more exhausting. Sometimes she thinks the smile will freeze on her face, a horrible travesty, finally betraying her.

She awakens to silence. The wind – so often relentless in the autumn nights, so much so that she notices its absence far more quickly than she would ever remark on its presence – is utterly still. The voices of the owls who convene their parliament in the long abandoned tower above Lucy's rooms are equally absent. She feels disoriented. Her eyes are open, she is sure of it, and yet she stares into the most profound blackness. She had gazed at the moon before she retired, a moon so full and bright that it caused shapes to dance on the inside of her eyelids, but now there's no sign of it. She could be blindfolded with the thickest, softest velvet.  
She closes her eyes, giving up on any attempt to penetrate the darkness, and listens as at the farthest reaches of her hearing an insect whines and buzzes. It is a noise that's entirely familiar to her, a strangely rhythmic chuck-chuck-chucking overlain with a high, infuriating squeal. She strains to hear more clearly as it gets closer, louder, more insistent. More threatening. Lucy feels an icy chill flowing into her limbs, a fear so intense that she can hardly breathe. Recognition scratches at her conscious mind, far behind the responses of her body, which is quivering in anticipation now.

The wailing shatters the night moments before Susan opens her door and skitters in, voice raised in anxiety. A second voice – a woman's, more controlled but still fearfully urgent – is calling out to their brothers, the same words. They crash down on her, dragging her back to horror and death.

“Lucy, wake up! It's an air-raid! Get dressed quickly! We need to get to the shelter.” Susan sounds as terrified as Lucy feels. It never gets easier. Perhaps she _is_ a child, but she still knows what the bombs can do. She's seen the rubble and wreckage they cause, and felt the loss they leave in their wake.  
The dull drum-roll of the German bombs settles in, heavy and grim behind the chuck and whine of the planes. It swells the fear in her, making it grow until it seems to blot out her heart, freezing her in place. Susan's voice is ever more urgent. Lucy feels her hands grasping at the blankets that cover her, threatening to leave her exposed, cowering in the darkness.

"Come _on_ , Lucy! You can't hide there, you know. Here, take my hand and we'll get some clothes on you but for heaven's sake, _do_ hurry up!"

Lucy grips tightly at the woollen roof of her shelter, safe and dark and warm. The noise of the world outside, the world in all its bleakness and filth, drifts away from her. She feels Susan's hands, touching her but for a few layers of cloth. They're still, soothing.

**

Lucy isn't afraid. She can't even remember that she had reason to be, let alone what those reasons were. She grasps at the heavy material that nearly surrounds her, steadying herself against the sill, the glass cold at her back. It is raining. Without looking at the sky, Lucy knows that it is glowering, fearful. She has forgotten what other cause for fear the sky might hold.

The sill is narrow under her. It's the perfect hiding place, too small to easily conceal anyone but her. Even Edmund, only two years older, is a lot bigger than she, and he has _much_ larger feet. Lucy is pleased with herself. This time at least, she's bound to win. That'll stop Ed being such a pig. (She knows in her heart that it won't. She wishes she knew what would).

There is a click and the gentle fall of stockinged feet. Lucy, if possible, stands even more still, is even more silent. The corridor - long and dingy, with doors at both ends and made no less dingy by three small, curtained windows - connects two wings of the Professor's house, one of which is almost entirely unvisited. Lucy had been so sure that she wouldn't be found. She holds her breath, pouting slightly. It's an expression that Edmund often teases her for. She's glad he's not here to see.

Lucy knows the owner of the feet just by the sound. They're too hesitant and light to be Peter's, and just too _quiet_ to be Ed's. She can't hold her breath much longer, and Susan is being so _terribly_ slow. Lucy grits her teeth, blowing ever so softly through her nose and trying desperately to ignore the pressure in her throat, the burning in her lungs.

Susan smiles as she draws aside the curtain but says nothing. She holds a finger to her lips, steps onto the sill beside Lucy and pulls the material back into place. Lucy's lungs burn still, the light at her back grows even dimmer. Susan is silent at Lucy's side.

**

Lucy cannot say when the noise of the rain at her back stopped, when the silence became so complete. She can't hear her own heart in her ears any more, or the sound of her sister's breathing at her side. She is utterly bereft of sensation, but for the warmth at her neck, an oh-so-gentle softness. It is familiar and comforting. She leans into the warmth, feeling it envelope her. The joy that wells up in her almost overwhelms her anxiety and guilt. Almost. At the last moment she turns and, mischievously, an impish grin lighting her face, she reaches up on tiptoe and plants a kiss on the nose that she finds there. It is warm and velvety soft.

The Lion seems smaller than he once had been. She has grown, of course, and who is she to say that he has not, with a will, become smaller? Lucy is so used to this form that he chooses but she knows now that it is simply that, a choice. A few steps further and her face is in his mane, her arms stretching to encircle his neck. Smaller he may be, but her hands do not meet.

"Aslan, darling. You've been gone for so long," she says, her voice hardly more than a breath against the softness of his mane. There has never been a time when feeling him against her, all gentleness and controlled power, has not filled her with joy. Aslan doesn't speak. Deep in his throat Lucy hears the deepest, slowest vibration. Of course he is not _purring_. Aslan would never do something so undignified. "Are you really here, my dear? Am I dreaming?"

When he does speak, the Lion's voice is slow and rich. He sounds amused. "Lucy, my daughter, do you really believe that, if you were dreaming, I would not be here? Do you think that that would make me any less real?" He pauses, and now the vibration becomes a chuckle. "I know you better than that. You have, after all, always been a most perceptive child."  
"And you, dear Aslan, have always spoken in riddles." Lucy laughs into his mane. Few others would dare tease him so but she has known him since childhood and she loves him as an old friend. His chuckle is louder now; it is nearly enough to vibrate through her skull. Finally, Lucy releases the strangle-hold she has on his neck and steps back. The warmth of him lingers against her skin, his scent - the strangest mixture of forests and flowers, and the fresh tang of the ocean, all shot through with a dark, sweet musk - is in her nostrils. She wishes she could keep it with her always.

Lucy Pevensie, sixteen years old, yellow-haired, slight and boyish, stands before the Great Lion of Narnia and looks him full in the eyes as a friend and an equal. There is the tiniest voice in the back of her mind, taunting her. This she can do, yet she cannot stand up to her own siblings? And what of the other thing? All the bravery and dignity in the world won't help her when _that_ comes out.

"I'm not a child any longer. I wish I were," Lucy whispers. "What's wrong with me? What does all this mean? It can't be right that I feel like this, can it?" It has been months. Months of silent torment, unable to talk about her feelings, barely able to acknowledge them to herself. The trickle of words becomes a flood. She cannot stop herself. Who could?

"I dream about her. She's everywhere. Awake or asleep, it doesn't even matter any more. And oh, I want to touch her so badly, and stroke her hair and feel her lips against mine." She feels the sting of tears; she can hardly keep her voice steady. All of Shatterstaff's teachings in dignity, deportment, and all of the ways a queen should carry herself, all wasted. She is shaking, and at last her face crumples. She can look at him no longer; her knees buckle and she sinks, sobbing, to the ground. "Please don't hate me. Only make it stop. I don't want to feel like this any more. Just make it stop. Please." She speaks the last few words through gasps, sobbing so hard now that she can barely breathe.

Lucy curls in the soft, sweet grass, the great wave of her emotion drowning her, terrified that she'll be totally incapable of rebuilding the dam that has held it back. She doesn't hear him approach, merely feels the warmth of his breath on her face. A lion's kiss is a rare thing, and so often fatal. This Lion's kiss is rarer still. Lucy feels his lips on her temple; her tears subside as she feels his strength and his calmness, so close, flowing into her.

"Oh, my daughter. Do not let your tears overwhelm you. Do you truly believe that it can be wrong to love? Have I taught you so poorly?"

"But surely it must be wrong. How can it be right to feel like this?" Lucy's tears are gone, and that in itself is a miracle. It will take more than a kiss to ease her fear and guilt.

"Lucy," Aslan says softly, the humour back again, somehow lacing even that single word plainly. "I believe you may have forgotten to whom you are speaking. There are things that even I do not know, and they are many. My Father has not vouchsafed all his knowledge to me. But, dearheart, there are few mysteries so simple as love. You love her, and your love is real. I ask once again. Do you believe it is wrong to love?"

She rubs at her eyes, dashing away the tears, and sniffs loudly. She struggles to her knees also, gathering what little dignity she has left around her. "But it's not _just_ love, is it? I know you know what I mean, you always know. Oh, the things I've dreamed about. What would she think if she knew?"

She closes her eyes, unable to bear the thought, equally unable to escape it. When she opens them again Aslan holds them with his own, dark and unblinking. "Dearheart, I know that you are not asking me that question. You know it is one that I will not answer. I may tell you your story. I may not tell you your sister's. If you wish to know that, then you must ask her.  
"You will awaken soon, and perhaps you will believe that this has been a dream. Still, you will remember that we have spoken, I think. And I think, most of all, that you will remember this: that love freely given and freely received cannot be wrong." Aslan's breath swirls around her, caressing her and drawing her back towards sleep. "You know your heart, child. Follow it where you may, but be gentle with it. Be gentle also with the hearts of others, and perhaps they will follow where you lead."

Lucy awakes for a second time, into a chill autumn morning. Stretching and yawning, she scratches at a temple and feels an echoing scratch, on the edge of her consciousness. Something is different, she feels _lighter_ , almost. She couldn't even begin to say why.

**

The kitchens of Cair Paravel are a constant bustle, even – especially – in the still of dawn. Lucy can hear the thrum and swell of voices from down the corridor, mixed with the clang of oven doors and the sound of steel on wood. The sound and heat breaks over her as she pushes at the small side entrance and she stops for a moment, regretting the heavy robe she had thrown on to ward off the chill. Her stomach grumbles as the smell of baking bread wafts around her and, giving herself a minute to become accustomed to the relative gloom, she begins to plot her way to her goal.

A long table stands against the wall opposite Lucy, made smaller by the cavernous nature of the kitchens but large enough, nevertheless. It all but creaks under its burden: fresh loaves, fish, cheese, cold meats, fruit, nuts and berries, vegetables of all sorts, and on, and on. There is an informality to the eating arrangements that would shock a more traditionally-minded potentate. Narnia's young rulers have never been able to accustom themselves to the idea of being served, waited on. It is in part, perhaps, a result of an inability to see their friends as subjects. (Susan has suggested, perfectly seriously, that the only reason they rule is that no one else is prepared to handle the paperwork). Formality and ceremony must have their moment, of course, although it amuses Peter especially to give the lesson of humility to the more presumptuous of their neighbours' ambassadors once in awhile. But, far more often, there is _this_.

Gruffle the dwarf – fiery of hair and warm of temperament; lord of his kitchen and subservient to no one, within it or without – is in heated discussion with Thornfoot the badger (his lifelong friend and only nominally his underling) about, well Lucy isn't too bothered with what, she just knows that it's loud and unlikely to end any time soon. Creatures of all sorts busy themselves with tasks assigned according to a rota so complex that it makes Lucy's head throb; all she knows is that, one way or another, everybody chips in something and the entire castle stays fed. Lucy has seen some genuine miracles in her short life. This daily miracle is in no way lessened because of that.

There is a single figure at the table that serves as eating place for a fair part of the castle's population at one time or another. The quickest and safest route to her breakfast planned with single-minded precision, it is only when Lucy takes her seat that her finally-accustomed eyes connect with her sleep-addled brain. It's far too late. The ledger, ink bottle and quill – pushed to one side for the moment – should have given fair warning but even that's not enough this morning.

Lucy slumps onto the bench, bleary-eyed, and attempts a smile at her breakfast companion. Susan returns the smile far more brightly, appearing almost like a figure from a thick fog, her face suddenly completely clear. It is all that Lucy can do to stop herself reeling backwards in shock. She is entirely unprepared, defenceless.

Susan's hair, midnight black and hanging half-way to her waist, is tied back, her face free of cosmetics. It makes the smudge of ink on the side of her nose all the more obvious. (Lucy pictures her, bowed over the ledger, tongue between her teeth (a habit that her siblings never tire of teasing her for); she sees her raise the almost invariably ink-stained index finger, heedlessly soothing her itching nose before lifting the quill again, scritching and correcting her working). Her simple green dress is cut square across the bodice and sets off her eyes as they meet Lucy's. The whiteness of her neckline is unadorned except for the simple silver chain that bears the key – both ceremonial and practical – of the Chatalaine of Cair Paravel and its provinces. Lucy has never seen her look more lovely. So early in the morning, and so utterly unprepared, she is greatly relieved that she is already in her seat.

Susan smiles even more broadly, dropping a chunk of bread to flitter her fingers at her. “Lucy, dear. Good morning! How delightful, and so early, too! I sometimes think that I'm the only sovereign of this fair nation who knows what morning looks like.”

Lucy smiles, mouth closed, and makes a show of chewing and swallowing the sliver of cheese that she'd helped herself to before sitting down. She watches the smudge of ink on her sister's nose, uncertain for a moment what to do or say. It seems mean not to do anything, though. She raises a hand, still silent, and, wetting the corner of her kerchief, steps around the table to cup Susan's face gently in her left hand. Her skin is warm and unbelievably soft. It is all Lucy can do not to stroke her cheek as she brings the damp cloth to bear on the stain. It is stubborn – almost as stubborn as she is, perhaps – and requires a couple of minutes of concerted effort to erase.

Susan raises her eyebrows slightly at the first assault but is uncomplaining besides, the patter of her fingernails on the table her only other movement. Lucy can't tell what that signifies and anyway, she is far more engaged in not noting the shadowed glade of skin that sits at the curve between Susan's neck and shoulder. She focuses resolutely on the job at hand, not _in any way_ lingering on the way the quickly fading stain mars the whiteness of Susan's cheek; or on the redness of her lips (pressed into a slight line now), or the way the fullness of the bottom lip gives the impression of an almost permanent pout. She especially does not notice the way it would be so easy to lean forward and press her lips to her sister's gently, to flicker her tongue against them until they part with a sigh...

“Lucy? Really, dear, are you sure you shouldn't still be in bed? You're asleep on your feet. And have you quite finished mothering me or am I going to have to spend the next half an hour with a soggy cloth stuck to my face?” There is no irritation in her tone. Her lips curve upwards slightly as she speaks and she raises a hand to carefully tuck a stray strand of yellow hair behind Lucy's ear. It is all Lucy can do not to jolt away from her as Susan's thumb strokes her cheek a single time before she drops her hand to the table once more.

Lucy kicks herself inwardly. Her hand is unmoving against Susan's face now and she doesn't know exactly how long she's been simply _staring_ at her mouth. The quirk of Susan's lips is the perfect companion to the slightly quizzical look that she is directing at her. Lucy raises her hand mutely, displaying the dark smudges on the previously unblemished material, as if that were all the explanation required for her behaviour. Susan takes the raised hand in her own and squeezes it.

“Thank you, dear. That's really very thoughtful of you.” She pulls Lucy close, gesturing to the bench beside her. “Now sit! Distract me from all these facts and figures! I think it's my turn to mother you, yes? And I can start by making sure that you actually eat a proper meal for once. Really Lucy, you're skin and bone. Does no one ever feed you?”

Lucy sits and takes a deep breath, feeling normality reassert itself, if only for a while. She's in two minds, unsure whether to smile or scowl. She chooses the latter, allowing her irritation free rein. The relief is overwhelming.

“Oh, stop nagging me! I eat more than enough, and I really don't need someone to feed me up, thank you! This is all part of your conspiracy with Ed, isn't it? Fatten me up so you can marry me off to some obnoxious Calormene prince. Well, it's not going to happen, you know that, don't you? Just because Ed's got it into his head that he can solve all my problems with some stupid party ...” Lucy stumbles to a halt, surprised almost by her own vehemence. She inhales slowly and continues, a little more calmly. “By the Lion, Su, do you have any idea how frustrating it is? Having the three of you always so sure you know what's best for me? And I feel horrible complaining because I know you mean well, but really, does it never occur to any of you to actually ask _me_ what I want? You never know, I might actually have an idea!”  
She stops again, suddenly overcome with guilt. She's actually out of breath, convinced that she must look like a small, golden haired bull, alternately bellowing into the gloom and blowing hard.

Susan simply waits, her chin on her palm, her face impassive and entirely unreadable. Her other hand still holds Lucy's loosely. She's making slow circling motions with her thumb against the back of Lucy's hand, so softly that she barely notices at first, is sure that she must be imagining it. Then, just as gently, Susan pinches her, and pokes out her tongue very quickly, just the tip but Lucy definitely sees it. Susan laughs.

“Well, that's more like it! I was starting to think that we'd lost you again. I can't get used to you being all silent and, and, _accommodating_. It just doesn't feel right.” She grins when Lucy, after the briefest pause, exactly mirrors her actions. “Lucy, you know you don't have to do anything you don't want to, but, well, even the things you don't want to do can have their purpose. We _are_ trying to help, but you can help yourself, too, you know.” She hesitates. “Does the ball sound like such a horrible idea to you?”

Lucy clears her throat and shakes her head quickly. “Well, not _horrible_. I just, well Ed does have some strange ideas about what I want.”

Susan, too, shakes her head, ever so slightly. There is a look on her face that might almost be exasperation, but her lips at least suggest amusement. “Oh, give me strength! Honestly, there are times when I feel like it would do you both the world of good to spend a few days in the dungeons. They _are_ rather underused after all, and then at least you might talk to each other, and _listen_ , more importantly.”

“Hey, that's not fair!” Lucy knows how childish she sounds almost before the words leave her lips but she ploughs on all the same. She has little enough to lose. “You know what Ed's like. It's like talking to a very enthusiastic statue!”

Susan giggles, and it's incongruous, really. She's so often serious, so much the adult, that Lucy forgets that she is only a few years older. Susan releases her hand, only to reach out and enfold Lucy in both arms. She freezes, shocked.

“Oh Lucy, what am I going to do with you?” she says, a giggle still playing among the syllables. She shows no inclination to release her hold. Lucy is rigid, like the statue she accused her brother of resembling but without its more lively traits. Time crawls at the most agonising pace as Lucy forces her arms upwards to return the hug. She squeezes back, desperately ignoring the softness she holds against her, the flower-scent of her sister's hair.  
Susan continues, entirely oblivious, “I know he has a funny way of showing it, but Edmund only wants what you want, just like I do. But we can't know what you want if you won't _tell_ us.” She squeezes Lucy a final time and lets go, fixing her with a stern glare, the effect of which is almost immediately ruined by a grin that, well, Lucy can't think of it as anything other than wicked.  
“And you're allowed to take what you want sometimes, you know. You _are_ queen, after all.”

Lucy attempts an easy smile in response. She's certain that she comes up short.

“Well, my dear, much as I wish it weren't true and much as our dear brothers would have people believe otherwise, this castle and this country don't organise themselves. I'll let you finish your breakfast in peace.”  
Hefting the ledger in both hands she stands and, bending to drop a final kiss onto Lucy's brow, she bustles away, all business now.

Lucy sinks back in her seat, watching her sister's retreating form, admiring the green of her dress, the way it contrasts with her hair, the way it flares around her hips as she walks. Lucy feels almost calm, for the first time in, well, she couldn't say how long. She had despaired of ever feeling anything but confusion and anguish, her mind always a storm of violent emotions. It's a millpond now, though, and unbidden a memory rises to its surface, words in a voice so, _so_ familiar.

"You know your heart, child. Follow it where you may, but be gentle with it. Be gentle also with the hearts of others, and perhaps they will follow where you lead."

She smiles as she watches Susan struggle with the door, seemingly battling it open through sheer force of will, the ledger still held firmly in both hands, and as her lips curve upwards she touches a finger to them and, a little self-consciously, puckers them slightly. For a moment only, the most fleeting moment, but …

Oh, it's perfect.

She's allowed to take what she wants, sometimes. She _is_ queen, after all.

 _Oh_.

Lucy turns on the bench to face her breakfast. All of a sudden she is utterly ravenous. She hums quietly as she eats, feeling very, _very_ pleased with herself.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this part only took a couple of months, so go me! I still found it ridiculously hard to write, though (turns out, dreams sequences? Not as easy as they look). Also, 13000 words and still no smoochies! Fail D:  
> The question of Narnian diet is still bothering me. How are they not all vegetarians? And even that would be a problem in a country where a significant proportion of the flora is sentient. Lewis made a distinction between Talking and dumb beasts, and considered it fine to eat the latter, so I've gone with that (not an opinion I share, but whatever).
> 
> As always, loads of thanks to my betas, who this time round were [](http://cobalt_siren.livejournal.com/profile)[**cobalt_siren**](http://cobalt-siren.livejournal.com/) and [](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/profile)[**likecharity**](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/). You've both been super-helpful and encouraging. I really can't thank you enough ♥♥♥
> 
>  **Dedication:** This part is for [](http://sushizuzoru.livejournal.com/profile)[**sushizuzoru**](http://sushizuzoru.livejournal.com/), who's rather fond of Lucy/Aslan interaction. I hope you enjoy it, hon :D ♥  
>  This is also dedicated to [](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/profile)[**perverbially**](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/), because she's fabulous and deserves it! ♥


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucy hatches a plan, and there is cross-dressing.

That night, she sleeps the sleep of the blessed dead: black, dreamless and utterly restful. She awakes with a smile on her lips, stretching luxuriously. Of course she can recall how she felt before, she just doesn't remember precisely why.

She has so much to do. So much to do and so little time. She curses the months of her indecision, curses Aslan in the most affectionate terms for allowing her to become so lost in her own guilt, and for so long. (She has only the most shadowy memory of their conversation. She would dismiss it as a dream but for the other signs of his presence: the joy and peace she felt on awakening, the merest sensation of a breath on her forehead, the ghost of a kiss. They are signs more compelling and more real than any her eyes could provide).

It's two weeks till the autumn equinox. Two days after that is _the day_. It seems a pitifully short time to work the alchemy that will be required to transmute the predicted evening of leaden despair into something far more precious. Oh, for the Lion's sake, she can name it now can't she? A kiss. The dream of it consumes her, it's all she wants. All she needs for her life to be complete.

One kiss. That's all she needs.

It seems so simple. It doesn't for one moment occur to her that she may be unable to stop at one.  
**  
The Council Chamber of Cair Paravel is as far from the grandeur of the nearby throne-room as it is possible to be. Not one of them thinks that the throne-room serves any but a ceremonial purpose – as well as being rather useful to put the wind up any number of foreign dignitaries. _This_ is where the business of government actually happens, where the real decisions are made.

It is not without its comforts. Large, bright and airy, stone walls and heavy draperies keep it warm in winter and cool in summer. Gorgeous tapestries line the walls, a gift from King Lune in the early days of their reign. The chairs that surround the council table are upholstered in rich red velvet. (Edmund's original suggestion – that the upholstery be decorated with the royal arms – had been gently overruled by Susan, who had patiently explained to him that it might be considered disrespectful to be seen to be _sitting_ on Narnia's patron. It had taken him longer than he will now admit to accept the argument with good grace).

The table is round, so ancient that the wood has been worn marble-smooth and almost black. Thirteen chairs circle it, one of which is kept permanently empty. Peter likes to call it their _siege perilous_ , Lucy has never understood why. Often she believes that he does it simply to irritate her.  
**  
Lucy conceals a yawn in her sleeve and simultaneously attempts to scratch her itching nose. Council seems interminable, all the more so because she has tried so hard to focus properly on the proceedings. It has not been an eventful session; it so rarely is. Lucy has struggled through discussions of border security (the Giants are restless; the Giants are _always_ restless) and the _endless_ trade negotiations. (She is certain now that most of the delegations are simply drawing out the talks to ensure their presence at her birthday celebrations. The rumours, despite all efforts, have been damnably persistent). She has even been able to engage in the debate at times. She is proud of that, at least.

Edmund's comments on Narnia's internal affairs are brief and to the point. His bafflement is charming to behold, really.  
“No crime. No dissent. No unrest of any sort. The last petition I dealt with was three months ago, and that was in relation to mining operations in the Southern Mountains. And honestly, that's only a problem because the border's always been a little hazy round there and, well, we really don't want to go stepping on dear old Lune's toes.”

“You seem a little disappointed, brother,” Susan says with a laugh (and something low in Lucy's belly thrums at the sound, causing her to press her thighs together just that little bit too hard and shift uncomfortably in her seat). “Is our home a little too idyllic for your liking? Not enough excitement for you, perhaps?”

Edmund's brow climbs towards his hairline as he fixes his sister with the faintest look of reproach. She meets it with an easy smile, her chin in her palm. The scritch of Derren's quill ceases for a moment as his eyes flicker between the two. Genuine arguments are rare in Council but Edmund has been known on occasion to be perhaps a little oversensitive to even the most playful of his older siblings' jibes.

It passes in moments. Edmund's pursed lips relax into a smile. Susan winks at him.

“I'm merely bringing to the notice of the Council our rather remarkable good fortune. Or, who knows, perhaps we're actually good at this after all? Which would be a wonder, quite frankly. Ours was hardly an ideal ascension.”

Peter harrumphs (it is a word that Lucy had thought meaningless but nothing could come closer to describing the sound. For a moment he seems three times his age).  
“Well, we have had a little practice by now, Ed. I hope you're not implying that we're entirely hopeless,” he says, sounding a little put out. “And I do think that putting our peace and prosperity down to mere good fortune is less than fair to our excellent advisers, for one thing.” The sweep of Peter's arm takes in the whole table though, truth be told, today's session could hardly be said to be well-attended. It rarely is, except in times of crisis, and those are mercifully few.

As her eyes follow her brother's rather exaggerated gesture, Lucy takes a moment to study each of the councillors there present. With so little time until her birthday she can ill afford to delay any longer. She could have wished for an even poorer attendance, but still, it could be more uncomfortable. She has known most of them for as long as she can remember. In many ways they are like family, which is to say that, as often as not, they make Lucy want to scream.

Her siblings are arrayed at the cardinal points. Peter, as the eldest, had insisted on north, which still baffles her. Her own seat – to the rising sun, and Aslan's country – has always seemed to her to be far more prestigious. The fact that she faces her sister has only recently become a matter of enjoyment to her. It seems fitting, somehow, that Susan holds the west; of evening, and soft moonlight, and aching dreams (Lucy pinches herself on the leg as hard as she can through her breeches. Stop that). Edmund has the south - opposite his brother, though rarely _opposing_ him in anything but jest – all light and warmth and bluster. He goes to such lengths to hide the shadows that haunt him, even now. She respects that, as they have none of them respected her own privacy.  
Of the remaining places, four are empty on this particularly blustery September morning; four, that is, besides the 13th always empty (purely-there-to-be-a-constant-source-of-private-jokes-to-irritate-their-youngest-sibling) chair. (Lucy is certain that that is both its name and its function. She will remain certain of it for as long as she lives).

And of the others? They deserve to be named, at the very least. There is Tumnus (in Lucy's eyes first and forever foremost of all the Narnians) who sits at her right hand, ever ready with advice, insight, and a gently penetrating wit.  
Rhyddion sits at Peter's right (the ever-infuriating 13th chair is to the High King's left), pale haired, soft of voice, and yet with a steeliness of determination that is belied by his habitual gentleness. Derren – Rhyddion's younger brother, Lucy's putative partner (oh, how she cringes to think of it) – occupies the chair to his brother's right. The quill that is the most obvious badge of his secretarial duties rarely pauses, yet still he seems to take in the smallest nuance of the proceedings.  
The Lady Angharad takes the position of trust at Susan's right. Susan is ten years the junior of Angharad and Rhiannon, her twin, whose own seat to Susan's left is currently vacant, but they remain her closest friends and most trusted advisors. Lucy's anxiety in their presence has waxed until the spring tide of her guilt has more than once threatened to overwhelm her yet again. She has to force herself to meet Angharad's eyes with a smile, her heart pounding the while.  
Mr Beaver rounds out today's session, ever the voice of reason at Edmund's side. He and his wife had once occupied the space between Lucy and her youngest brother, that is until the entire Council had demanded their separation in an attempt to mitigate their endless, if entirely good-natured, marital bickering. Shatterstaff, when he is present, has come to act as a more than adequate shield between the two. His place (a chair in name only, of course. Centaurs do not hold with chairs) is empty today, however, and Mrs Beaver, or so her husband has been told to inform the Council, has Important Things To Do. No one would dare gainsay her.

Mr Tumnus laughs. He is little changed since their first meeting, for all that he now has the ear of monarchs and is powerful in his own right. His laughter still has the tinkle of bells on a summer's evening.  
“I'm sure your royal brother wouldn't be so remiss as to undervalue the work of this august body, Your Majesty,” he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “His point is well made and well taken, I think. Perhaps, after a hundred years of misfortune, Narnia has earned the good luck that she now enjoys.”  
A gentle murmur of agreement meets his words. It is all too easy to forget how it was before. Guilt nags at her, an itch she can never quite seem to scratch. She sees it in the faces of the other humans in Council. A century of suffering and fear. And the hunger. Tumnus has told her about it, once and once only, and only then because she insisted, refused to accept any answer but yes. For one night, he had answered every question she had to ask, his voice measured and clear, his eyes on hers. He held her in the end, as she wept, for the pity and horror of it all, for the pain and the shame. She has never forgotten.  
She takes his hand where it lies on the table and squeezes it wordlessly. His smile is bright in response. He leaves his hand where it is, however.

“Come now, Your Majesties, gentlemen, My Lady.” (And Angharad returns his smile with one even brighter than his own. Lucy is _almost_ certain that Harry's eyes don't flicker towards her in that moment, but her heart still thuds uncomfortably in her chest). “Come. I believe we have far more joyous matters to discuss. After all, it is not every day that the best of our number comes of age.”  
Angharad's eyes most certainly do fall on Lucy now, seven other pairs of eyes with them, and it is all that Lucy can do not to slump under their combined assault. By the Lion, she's a queen and the equal of every single person here. She will _not_ cower like a schoolgirl.  
She forces herself to sit straighter, lift her chin just a little higher, and resolutely ignore the heat flowing up her chest and neck and into her cheeks. She smiles, grace personified. At least, she can only hope so.  
“Thank you, Tumnus.” It seems petulant to withdraw her hand now, and yet surely she can't leave it there. Oh god.  
She takes a deep breath and starts again. “That's really very sweet of you, if a little too generous. I'm sure I'm not the best of anyone's number, for one thing. And I don't recall 17 being of any particular significance?”  
The chamber is still, eight people hanging courteously on her words. Wherever she looks she is forced to meet someone's eyes. She smiles briefly at Susan and is rewarded by a look, all cheer and encouragement, that she feels all the way to her toes. Just at the lower edge of her vision she can see the swell of her sister's breasts beneath the green of her dress. She flicks her eyes away quickly, all too aware of the scrutiny that she is under. If she looks left she will be forced to meet Harry's gaze, all piercing blue and endlessly questioning, that seems always to see more than Lucy would like. Instead, she looks right.  
Derren's quill has paused for a moment and his lips quirk in a smile as their eyes lock. He doesn't drop his gaze and she feels no need to, taking in, as if for the first time, the softness of yellow hair hanging to his shoulders, the delicate, almost feminine features. She's been told more than once that he resembles her far more than any of her siblings do.  
It comes to her out of clear air then, the final piece of her design sliding into place. She grins at him, prompting a slightly quizzical look in return. It's perfect, really, and it is all Lucy can do not to smirk at her own cleverness.  
  
**  
  
It's not like looking at her reflection, not exactly like that, at least. Lucy can't help thinking (worrying) that Derren makes a more convincing girl than she ever could.  
He had taken a little persuading, although actually far less than she had feared. “Pretty but wicked,” that's how Susan describes him and for all that he is by no means a child any longer his fondness for mischief is unabated. He has not even enquired after the details of her design, much less its purpose.

“Well, Your Majesty.” He twirls before her once more. “Do I look the part?”

“I think I should be calling _you_ 'Your Majesty'.” Lucy giggles, delighted beyond all expectations. “It's a wonder. My own sister could not tell the deception.” (She offers up a brief, silent prayer. Please let it be true.)

“I fear that the same could not be said of you. You're far too pretty to be mistaken for me.” Derren lifts her chin, locking eyes with her through the black leather of her mask. He bites his lip, thoughtful and, perhaps, just the slightest bit anxious. His own mask is a thing of beauty – feathers and lace, a swan's visage to complement the silk and feathers of his – her – dress. A simple white veil covers his head, obscuring his outline and, she hopes, concealing the unfortunate reality that Narnia's youngest queen has, it seems, grown at least three inches overnight.

“And you're far too kind, and far too modest. You wear that better than I ever could,” she says, absolutely sincere.  
“I don't really know what to think of that.” Derren laughs. “Are you saying that I look like a girl?” But there is no rancour in his tone.  
  
Lucy ignores the question. She checks herself in the mirror of her chamber for the last time, setting her wide-brimmed hat with its own single feather at an angle that Derren assures her is sufficiently jaunty. She ignores the discomfort of her bound breasts beneath the black leather of her jerkin and the silk of her tunic – black also – and rests her left hand on the pommel of her sword. Black breeches and black knee-high boots complete her costume ( _disguise_ ). The yellow of her hair – braided and pinned though it is – is shocking against the otherwise unrelieved starkness, yet Lucy is pleased. She looks _dashing_ almost, and entirely unlike herself.

“ _Your Majesty_ ” she says, offering her free arm to her companion. “It would be my honour to escort you on this happy day.”

“The honour is all mine, My Lord,” Derren responds with a laugh and a somewhat graceless curtsey that makes Lucy wince. Her heart is pounding now, but she refuses to let the sheer lunacy of her plans overwhelm her. She takes Derren's hand and threads his arm through her own.

“Thankfully, a queen never curtseys. Remember that, please.” She can hear an edge to her voice and feels guilty immediately. “Just, oh, I don't know, stay in the shadows and look uncomfortable and awkward, and, and like you'd rather be anywhere else in the world. And whatever else you may do, please, please, please don't accept any offers of marriage. If I awaken tomorrow to discover that I'm betrothed to some obnoxious Calormene princeling I'll be most displeased.” She is shaking; it is the more obvious now because Derren is so completely steady. He places a hand on her elbow where it visibly quakes in the crook of his arm.

“Hush. I will be the very soul of discretion, you know you can have complete faith in me.” He tries to catch her gaze but she's staring at the floor, desperately battling the roiling mass of worms that seems suddenly to be threatening to force its way up into her throat. “If you'll forgive me for saying so, I cannot help but be concerned that the threat to your honour, and, might I say, your heart, does not come from me tonight.”  
She does meet his eyes now. She feels like an insect transfixed on a needle.  
“It's not too late to turn back from this course. Whatever it is that you plan you can stop it now, if you would.”  
But Lucy stands a little straighter and forces her brightest, sunniest smile. Whatever else happens tonight, she is more determined than she has been about anything in her life. She will have her kiss.

“What's the matter, Derren, my dear? Don't you have the stomach for the sport?”

His answering smile is positively luminous. Derren never was one to be outdone. “As you wish. Well, _my lord_ ” (and his voice is a little softer than usual, and just that little bit lighter. Not Lucy's voice, perhaps, but not his own, either. Perhaps it will be enough) “I believe you have a ball to escort me to. Please do so.”

Lucy grins and almost yanks him towards the door. She catches their reflections from the corner of her eye and struggles to suppress the thrill that surges through her.  
The corridor outside her rooms is empty and silent. The moon, full and bright through the windows, throws unrecognisable shadows onto the wall.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm yeah. Apparently I posted the last part of this on May 23 of last year. Fail! I guess it's lucky that I only write as a hobby XD.  
> I can't really imagine anyone is particularly interested in this any more, I'm mostly just writing for myself really. It's been written for a little while actually but for one reason or another it hasn't really been in a fit state to post. Plus, it was a complete bitch to get on paper and I wanted to have the next part ready to roll just in case this one seemed like complete filler!
> 
> Loads and loads of thanks to my beta, who this time round was [](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/)**likecharity** , who stepped in at the last minute, despite not really enjoying beta-ing. Thank you so much ♥♥♥
> 
>  **Dedication:** This is for [](http://jules2112.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jules2112.livejournal.com/)**jules2112** , just because :) ♥
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine finally gets her wish, and it is not quite as she imagined.  
> 

She will always remember it. When she is old and grey, in the soft twilight of her years, she will reminisce as everyone must, on things done and things regretted, on her triumphs and defeats. She’ll count it among the best of her memories. She hadn’t known at the time what would follow, but then neither had she cared. She will not might-have-been, will not what-if. If she regrets her mistakes, at the very least she has made them, and gloriously. Even – especially – after the miracle that had nearly taken all their lives, she has gloried in them. (She has always thought of it as a miracle; how else could anyone explain the fact that every single person on that train had walked, unharmed, unscratched even, from the wreck).  
And her first mistake? Her most unashamed act of folly? There are so many to choose from, but if she _had_ to choose, it would go something like this …  
They walk arm in arm through near-silent halls, Derren stumbling every so often as he struggles with his unfamiliar clothing. He curses her choice of dress roundly, but Lucy simply smiles, unapologetic. Truth be told, it hadn't been her choice and she had never intended to wear it. And besides, she still believes that Derren looks more lovely in it than she ever could.  
The walk from her room is long, tension building with every step. The moon lights the night softly, a blanket of silver. They stand at the grand staircase of the Residence for a while – she couldn’t say how long, it is so easy to lose track of time. Windows pierce the walls. In daylight the peninsula they overlook is beautiful, lush and green, bright with flowers in spring and summer, green and gold in autumn. Only in winter does it seem harsh, bare trees and dark, almost black earth stark and unforgiving.  
Tarva and Alambil, twin red eyes, wink faintly high above, almost overwhelmed by the eager radiance of the moon. There are few other stars visible, moonlight and high, scudding clouds have done for them tonight, and Lucy is sorry for that. A sky thronged with stars would have been so much more romantic, magical even. Dark and gentle, something to hide in, to embrace in and be embraced by. Instead there is this, bright and accusing, revealing everything, showing all her secrets. She is not quite ready for that. If her plans unfold as she has pictured them for so very long, before the night has ended she will have loosened her grip on her most closely guarded secret, but still she would like to keep it close to her if she can. She has faith in Susan, trusts her above all. The rest of her family? Her friends? Her subjects? She is less certain of them than she would like.  
The more accustomed her eyes become, the brighter the night seems. She is grateful for all the secluded places that Cair Paravel holds within its walls. She'll have more need of them than ever.  
Derren tuts quietly beside her. “You’re shaking. Not cold, surely? It couldn’t be that guilty conscience of yours come to get you, could it?” His face is barely visible beneath his veil, but she can see a glint of teeth. He’s grinning.

“Hey, enough of that, you. My conscience is clear as clear can be, thank you.” It is only partly a lie.

They begin the slow descent of the staircase, treacherous in the gloom and enough to stem further conversation, for the moment at least.  
Lucy wonders for the first time about the lack of illumination. The sun is an hour beneath the horizon, every torch in the castle should be blazing by now, but there is nothing, and no one. Tonight, all of the castle’s inhabitants are focused on the Great Hall above and the kitchens below. Queasy already, the thought makes her stomach heave. It is all she can do to concentrate on reaching the final step, one hand on the banister, the other clutching her companion’s. She is fairly certain that Derren’s other hand is gripping the banister quite as grimly.

“It’s so quiet.” Lucy can’t help whispering, the stillness is almost oppressive. “We can’t be the last to arrive, surely.”  
Derren’s reply comes just as quietly, on the heels of the smallest chuckle. “Don’t you think so, my lord? I think perhaps we took a little longer in our preparations than most. So much to hide, after all.” Again, the chuckle. Lucy wonders briefly whether she has not made a misjudgement in her choice of co-conspirator. His every laugh grates on her already frayed nerves. She has to force her teeth together to stop them from chattering.  
What is she doing? What?

As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Derren is before her, pulling insistently. She pulls back, desperate for a little respite, at least, but he is relentless.

“Come, come. I won’t have you late to my birthday party.” That chuckle, _again_. She wants to slap him just to get him to shut up. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to keep a queen waiting?”

“Derren, so help me, if you keep on like this I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons. I’m nervous enough as it is and you’re really not helping.”

He pauses for a moment then, and turns back to face her, mercifully serious for once. Well, mostly serious.

“Lucy, look at me.” She does so, hard though it is. No hint of his teeth are visible now. “You think too much. Haven’t I told you before that that’s a weakness?  
“There’s nothing that can go wrong tonight. You’re queen and it’s your party. So you’ve decided to have a little fun with our guests. Who’d begrudge you that? “

“I... well, nobody, I suppose. But ...”

“But nothing. You’re among friends. Nothing will change that. Now stop worrying and can we please get to somewhere that has wine. And light too. I swear to you, if I don’t break something tripping over this blasted dress it’ll be a miracle.  
“Well? Are you ready?”

Lucy’s heart is still pounding. The point of no return is rushing towards her; she could step aside, and avoid it with ease. And live with the constant ache of longing, and the regret of mistakes unmade.  
That’s not her way though, and it never has been. She grasps her mistakes with both hands, and hang the consequences. She pulls away from him, suddenly playful again  
“You think I worry too much? We’ll see about that. Now, I think a race is called for, and we’ll see how well you can run in that dress. Last one there gets to kiss the Calormene ambassador!”

She hears Derren cursing, a steady stream that recedes into the evening behind her. He doesn’t stand the slightest chance, but Lucy really doesn’t care. She’s too busy enjoying the return of her good mood. She’s no way of knowing how long it will last.

**

Grudging though she is, Lucy can't help the joy that surges over her as she sees the double doors of the Great Hall, thrown open so that she can look into the hall beyond. She stands, breathless for a moment, and not simply from the sudden exercise, and surveys the length of the Lower Gallery stretching before her. Columns line it, delicately carved into a forest of stone, dryads peering from among the branches. Tonight, they've been tied with bright silken streamers, red and green and gold. Boughs of holly and juniper, red and black with berries, hang among them. Some kind of fragrant resin has been mixed with the torches it seems; there is a spicy sweetness to the air that Lucy hasn't experienced before.  
Used as Lucy has become to the deathly still of the rest of the castle, the noise is almost overwhelming, though she knows, really, that it is not so very much. Groups of people – human and beast – congregate in the shadows of the columns. The torchlight, where it falls, illuminates their finery, a riot of colour. Where possible, each wears a mask. Some simply cover the eyes, decorative affairs that do little to conceal face or identity. Others, though, are fabulous creations, both grotesque and beautiful: beak-like noses; wide, staring eyes; soft down and feathers; creatures that are mere myth, even in Narnia.

Through the doors, the colours and costumes are all the more riotous, the steady buzz of conversation all the louder and apparently increasing by the minute. As she approaches, forcing one foot before the other, Lucy sees Shatterstaff – his only concession to the proceedings a simple though beautifully decorated eye-mask – standing a little to the side of the entrance to the hall, deep in conversation with Merry, his mate. (Properly, she is Merrymeet, though Lucy can never bring herself to call her that, however well it suits her character. She is as warm and light-hearted as Shatterstaff is dour and serious). Her own mask is more elaborate, a delicate tracery of feathers and black lace, and she wears a cloak the colour of the holly leaves adorning the hall.  
Lucy is at once disappointed and relieved. Centaurs, like dryads, rarely wear clothes and Lucy finds it a struggle to know where to look when she speaks with Merry. She more than suspects that Merry is aware of it. 

Lucy swallows convulsively, a low-down tingle making common cause with the butterflies in her belly.  
_Concentrate_. The night will be complicated enough without _that_.

And the first complication, the first test of her disguise, is upon her. Centaurs are famously observant. If she can fool them, she can fool anyone.

A cough at her back makes Lucy jump so violently that it is a wonder that she doesn't fall on her backside. She's almost certain that she let out an audible – and less than masculine – squeal.

“I beg pardon, my lord,” a voice rumbles from behind her, low and good-humoured but solicitous. King Lune's voice. Oh. Perhaps not the _first_ complication, then.

Lucy turns to face him, trying for what she hopes is a confident, friendly, forgiving but respectful smile. It’s something of a tall order for a mouth that has become so unused to such exercise of late.  
“No pardon is necessary, Your Majesty, but of course you should have it were it to be so,” she says with a slight bow, taking in his apparel. “And may I say how fine you look tonight. I’m sure our host will be most touched.” It’s true, on both counts, though Lucy can’t help but wince at the stilted formality of her words. Her voice has never sounded more girlish to her ears.

Lune acknowledges the compliment with a smile and a nod. “Our royal host is worthy of all the effort a person could muster, wouldn’t you agree?” His mask – the green, gold and red of the harvest king exactly matching the scheme that Susan has chosen – obscures all but his mouth. It fails to disguise him for a moment, though, his bear-like frame and apparently storm-tossed hair and beard won’t stand for that. Lucy struggles for a moment with the strongest urge to throw her arms around him and squeeze.

“I don’t believe I know you, my lord, though I confess that you seem somehow familiar. My eyes fail me in this light, it would appear. “

And so it comes.

“I’m Derren, Majesty. Perhaps you know my brother, Rhyddion? We’re very much alike, I’m told.”

Her heart is a drum.

The pause that follows seems neverending. His eyes have her pinioned, laid-bare, revealed for a liar. And then, “Hmmm, yes, I recall. Though the resemblance is less strong than once it was, I think.  
Will you accompany me into the hall, my lord Derren? It would not do to keep our host waiting.”

“It would be a privilege, Your Majesty. Perhaps you’ll allow me to be your honour guard.” She keeps her voice low and quiet, just loud enough to be heard over the throng, and ends on a bow, a full bend at the waist, a flourish of her hand. Her hat, however, remains firmly on her head.  
As she rises to a hearty laugh from Archenland’s king, there is a skitter of feet and a vehement curse. She sees Derren, tangled in his skirts, muttering, drawing to a halt mere feet from them. She sees him register the identity of her companion and look to the shadows, seeking out some sort of escape. Far too late.

“A very good day to you, my lady. Allow me to compliment you on your costume. You are the very picture of radiance.” It is Lune’s turn to bow now, ever gallant.

Lucy’s breath catches in her throat. She can do nothing but wait. Thankfully she does not have to wait for long. Having disentangled himself somewhat, Derren’s responding curtsey is shallow but surprisingly graceful. (She hasn’t forgotten his last attempt. Apparently he had been toying with her. She won't forget that).  
“My thanks, Your Majesty. But is my disguise so good that you fail to recognise me?”

Oh, Aslan, no. Lucy is beginning to think her heart won’t survive the night, and if her imposture remains intact for even an hour of it she’ll be fortunate.

“My lady? I’m afraid I am at a loss. Perhaps you can assist me?”

Derren _giggles_ (oh no...) and yet when he speaks again, there is a change in timbre and tone that stuns her. She hears herself in the boy before her, and her relief is intense.  
“Really, my dear Lune? Has another year changed me beyond all recognition? That makes me sad. I had thought that you, at least, would know me.” Derren's lips, barely visible, form into a pout. (She grits her teeth. Another thing to discuss with Derren later. She most certainly does not _pout_ ).  
As clear as day, she sees it. Lune turns his head, so very slightly. She can’t see his eyes behind his mask, but she knows with a certainty that he is looking at her. A small smile plays around his lips for the ghost of a moment. And then it is gone, to be replaced by the broadest grin and a booming laugh. She slumps inwardly as he bows again, his attention on Derren once more.

“Forgive me, Lucy. _Your Majesty_. It is certainly a remarkable disguise. No one would _ever_ know you.  
“Allow me to wish you joy on your birthday. And I know that my lord Derren would be as honoured as I to escort you into the festivities.”

Derren is all smiles. “Why thank you, my dear. I could think of no finer escorts, and no better start to the celebrations.” He pauses, offering an arm to Lune before looking at Lucy, something just short of a smirk on his lips. Oh, he's enjoying this far too much. “My lord Derren? Would you do me the honour of taking my other arm? It is hardly good etiquette, I know, but it would please me no end to enter between two such fine men.”

She takes his arm. It is all she can do.

She had planned everything so that she would not have to enter her own party on a fanfare. It’s the first of her plans to go awry. She prays that it will be the last.

 

**  
She makes her excuses, and her escape, as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Where it had seemed colourful and noisy from the Lower Gallery, inside the Great Hall itself it is utterly bewildering. Lucy can't recall having seen quite so many people in one place, well, ever. (Not, that is, when they weren't actively trying to kill each other).

Here also, boughs of holly and juniper, and streamers of red and gold silk, adorn the walls.

Music – by turns sentimental and joyful – overlays the hubbub of voices and laughter. The musicians themselves occupy a dais at the one end of the hall, opposite the doors. They are dwarfs all, Gruffle among them. (Dwarfs are almost invariably consummate musicians, a fact that they mostly keep very much to themselves). They stop regularly to pull at mugs that are kept constantly full. Lucy has spent the last few minutes just watching them and she is growing increasingly doubtful that any of them will reach the end of the evening in anything other than a horizontal position. She is less concerned about their ability to continue playing throughout; it seems to be a source of some pride that nothing short of unconsciousness or death can silence them. She does, however, feel a pang of sympathy for the poor souls who will have to deal with the aftermath of their revelry.

Long tables creak with delicate pastries; fruit of a score of types and shades; sherberts, sweetmeats and wines from Calormene; and dark dwarfen ales ( _that_ mostly find its way down the throats of Gruffle and his companions, it would seem). There are eye-wateringly powerful spirits from the lands to the north – to keep out the harsh Northern winters, Lucy has heard, though having sneaked a sip just a few moments earlier, she is certain that death by cold would be preferable.  
And there are decorations, woodland animals and birds, formed of twig and leaf, precious metals and gemstones. And on an on.  
Despite everything, Lucy is touched beyond words that it is all for her.

The people – the guests, _her_ guests – are no less brilliant and exotic. Even the Calormene ambassador has bowed to her whim, and he is as arrogant and sour-face a man as Lucy has ever had the misfortune to meet. She is uncertain whether to be amused or insulted by the attempt, some sort of hook-beaked Calormene carrion bird, perhaps, or one of the more unattractive classes of demon.  
Looking him up and down as he does his best to dominate Derren's attention, she wonders whether he somehow believes that that monstrosity will reflect well on his suit. Even from this distance she can almost feel the intensity of his determination, barely disguised by a cloak of unctuous courtesy. She does not envy Derren one little bit.

A familiar guffaw breaks across the hall at that moment, briefly drowning out the sentimental air that Gruffle and his compatriots have just now embarked on. It is King Lune, playing court even so far from home; Lucy will probably always envy how comfortable he seems in his own skin. Her brothers hang on his every word, along with, apparently, the entirety of the Terebinthian delegation (all done out in a nautical theme; even Lucy would be forced to admit that they look dashing).

A flash of sky blue distracts her as Prince Corin, all of 8 years old and a firebrand in the making, zigzags away from his father. Perhaps he is bored by the King’s anecdotes, more likely he is drawn by the trove of sweet things so close at hand. She observes his bewilderingly agile progress, smiling fondly as he pauses a moment to exchange a few words with Tumnus before continuing towards his goal. The faun seems almost as overwhelmed by the whole affair as she is. And then, once more her eye is caught, this time by an all-too familiar flash of red and, oh, _finally..._

Susan had not been present when Lucy had first entered with Derren and Lune, she had looked close and hard enough to be certain of that. She is here now, however, perched upon the musician’s dais. (Lucy smirks to herself; there are some who would suggest that Susan's pose is less than seemly). Her slippered feet are crossed at the ankles, just visible.

Lucy has long since been unable to differentiate the Susan of her days from the images that grace (haunt) her nights, the fantasies that do her bidding as quick fingers ease her towards sleep and the dreams that await her, all unbidden, after. She is sometimes afraid that she has moved to a place where they are, simply, the same to her, that love has made her mad. Tonight (most times, if she is entirely honest with herself) she doesn't care. If her dreams melt into reality now, well it's what she's hoped and planned for all these months.

As Susan turns her head to speak to the twins, Angharad and Rhiannon, at her side, Lucy sees it all drawing out of reach.

They are as lovely as ever, matching green gowns setting off the red of their hair. On another day Lucy would be unable to resist simply watching them, her eyes ever ready to flick away, her face a picture of studied indifference. Susan laughs as one of them (Rhiannon – Lucy is more than able to tell them apart by now) speaks, a wicked smile on her face, and Lucy's heart sinks. Perhaps this _is_ a dream, another fantasy to soothe another sleepless night.  
As Lucy frowns, her lips drawing into a thin line, her sister's gaze finds her and holds her. Her mask, never intended to hide her identity, still yet obscures her expression. Lucy cannot tell what the quirk of her lips signifies. With a few words to her companions, she straightens up and begins to cut across the hall with a familiar determination.

The Small Door from the Great Hall, artfully concealed behind one of the columns that line its walls, is mercifully clear. Within a few moments she feels the elaborately carved oak beneath her hand and, looking behind her to be certain, she pushes with all her weight. It is not much; hardly used, hinges creek in protest yet it swings open almost immediately. She doesn't look back. That one last look at her sister's face, a silent “wait” on her lips, is enough. She will follow. She has no more choice than Lucy, now.

**

The night is chill, the moon high and unforgiving, but the walled garden (Lilyglove's pride and joy) feels safe, sheltered even. Still, Lucy hugs herself, shivering a little, though she would be hard-pressed to say whether from the cold or sheer trepidation.

And then it's upon her. The click of a gate, a barely audible patter, coming closer and closer. Susan. Oh Aslan, is this it?

 _Don't think_.

She sits and waits. The stone bench is cold against her thighs. An owl calls, to be answered moments later. She lets all the night noises soothe her, and she waits.

She doesn't have to wait long. “My … lord?” Susan's voice is hesitant, questioning. “You did not wait for me.” There is an _edge_ there, perhaps, yet she sounds amused.

“But I did, Your Majesty.” Lucy tries for low, soft, a touch of gravel. The result is not what she would have wished. “I have been waiting for you here.”

As her sister takes her place beside her, the smallest space between them, she forgets the cold. The flush rolls over her, all too familiar but welcome now.

“It was not very gallant to make me chase you, nor to abandon my sister's festivities for your own assignations. Or perhaps you know her mind better than I do? I wonder, my lord, how could that be possible?” Her words are – should be – reproachful, but for all the world she sounds amused, as if she is playing a game. “Well? Do you think you know my sister's mind better than I?”

“Ah, um, of course not. My lady,” she stutters out a response, entirely unprepared. She had not imagined such a conversation. Conversation is the last thing she has imagined. “Ah, Queen Lucy seemed like she would not be too upset by my absence. Among so many guests I will not be missed, I think.”

“And do you not think that all those guests deserve the presence of their host? Though I will admit that you have provided a most convincing stand-in. Who would have thought that our little Derren would make such a pretty girl?”

_Oh._

_Oh no._

“You, on the other hand, are _far_ too pretty to be a boy, mask or no mask. The costume becomes you well enough, mind. You look very, ah, dashing.” Susan giggles gently as Lucy watches all her plans collapse around her ears. She can't speak, she can hardly look Susan in the eye. Quickly enough, she decides against it anyway, staring instead at the dark sliver of bench that separates them. That, now, will always separate them.

For a moment there is silence. Lucy can hear the sea, far away, hundreds of feet below. The night is so peaceful. Her hands are starkly white on the bench before her.  
“Honestly, Lu, you could have told me. I really wouldn't have minded. I _don't_ mind. It's your party, after all, and it's quite funny really, watching all those eager little boys fighting for your attention. Poor Derren. However did you persuade him to go along with it? I fear he'll crack before the evening's out, and you'll find yourself inconveniently betrothed.”

Lucy smiles tightly. “Oh, don't worry. I've already warned him that if that happens I'll have him thrown in the dungeons.”

Her sister tuts slightly in response. “I fear that would simply encourage him. Take care, I'm not quite sure how far he'll go for the sake of mischief. He does enjoy it so. I suppose _that's_ why he allowed himself to be talked into it.  
“You though, what were you thinking?” She sighs. “Oh, I don't know. I despair sometimes. Would it have killed you to let me in on your little joke?”

“It's _not_ a joke.” Lucy feels obliged to defend herself, though she has no inkling of how else she could possibly begin to explain it. “I just needed to, ah, I wanted to ..” No. Not that.

She feels fingers beneath her chin, gently, barely touching and easily resisted. Susan is so close, Lucy can hear her teeth chattering ever so slightly. She is swaying just a little. She's rather drunk, apparently.

“You wanted what? Look at me. Tell me. Since when haven't you been able to tell me everything?”

Lucy stops resisting and lifts her chin. She answers the question in the only way she can think of. Susan is so close, it feels entirely natural to reach out and circle her waist, steadying her slightly. She is soft and warm, smiling, pleased perhaps but quizzical too.  
It feels all the more natural to lean forward, no matter how clumsy she is as she presses her mouth to Susan's own. Susan's lips move against hers, curving upwards in a smile, parting just a little; the smallest moan vibrates against her mouth (and Lucy couldn't say what that signifies, she can hardly think at all). It finds an echo in her own throat.

She had dreamed of caressing her skin, stroking her hair, nibbling at her throat, rocking her gently. When it comes to it, all she can do is cling to her, hold on for dear life.

She wants to hold on forever. She knows she can't.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this (all but the first few hundred words) in about 5 days at the beginning of November. Thus far, my most productive week, fiction-wise, ever. It's been stalled for lack of a beta since then, so once again I'd like to say massive thanks to [likecharity](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/profile), who helped out loads. Thank you! ♥♥♥
> 
> So far, this whole thing has been about 20 months in the writing. It's hit 20000 words as of this chapter and I'm still not sure how long - in words or time - it will be. I've never finished anything this long before, and even if no one at all reads it, I'm absolutely determined to finish this, for personal satisfaction as much as anything else. Wish me luck :)
> 
>  **Dedication:** And because it's her birthday this month, I'm going to dedicate this to [perverbially](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/profile). If you see this, a very early Happy Birthday! Have fun :) ♥
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a morning after, and Lucy is paranoid and irritable.

It's like all of her senses have abandoned her (along with all of her _sense_ , but she said goodbye to that months ago). She can feel the warm softness of Susan's body, smell her skin, taste a tart sweetness on her lips (and yes, there's alcohol there too). Susan's breath comes slow and heavy (felt as much as heard) and as for sight, Lucy isn't sure she could open her eyes now even if she wanted to.  
She holds on for dear life, her body doing its best to entirely dispel the space between them. Susan is straight-backed and unyielding (rigid with something that Lucy prays isn't shock) yet when Lucy swipes at her lips gently with her tongue they part slightly. The sound in her throat, a high-pitched whimper, is – well, Lucy's ability to read her sister vanished months ago, to be replaced by dream and fantasy. All she knows is that she's still there. Not kissing her back, not exactly, but not stopping her, and especially not fleeing into the chill of the night. That has to be a good sign. Doesn't it?  
As rapt as she is she knows it can't last, knows moreover that there is something she should be doing. Some sort of precautions to be observed. But who would come looking out here when there is so much spectacle inside? There is no chance that that noise, that ghost of the real world trying so rudely to impinge on her fantasy, could be anything other than the wind in the trees.  
  
By the time she realises otherwise it is far too late.  
  
“Susan! Susan, where are you?”  
  
A child's voice, Corin's, and closer than she would have thought possible. Susan's hands are on her sister's arms even as Lucy is pulling herself backwards. Susan's mouth is a tight line now but her eyes are wild, her hair mussed. (And did Lucy do that? She wishes she could remember.) Looking around, Lucy sees the bright blue of Corin's tunic, the shock of white-blond hair, not five feet away. He's not the quietest child Lucy has ever known either. How could she have let him get so close?  
  
She forces herself to smile, though she feels for all the world like she's been dragged out of deep, dreaming sleep into rude wakefulness. She's confused, couldn't think of a word to say if her life depended on it. Corin's eyes are wide and bright, as blue as his clothing. They flick from Susan to Lucy and back again. It feels like they see _everything_. His face is pale and serious-looking in the moonlight.  
  
“You were kissing.” It's not an accusation, merely a statement of fact. There's the slight hint of a question. It's all that keeps Lucy's heart from sinking through the floor. At her side, Susan laughs (gaily, or slightly drunkenly. Lucy isn't entirely sure which).  
  
“Corin dear, you _are_ silly. My Lord Derren simply had something in his eye.”  
  
“Did kissing him help?” Corin's reply is quick, still serious. Trying to understand, nothing more. Lucy feels like her face is on fire.  
  
And then, “Why does Derren look like a girl?” Oh Aslan, is there _no_ way to shut the child up?  
  
Susan stands quickly, her hand finding Lucy's shoulder and squeezing it for the briefest moment.  
  
“Really, Corin. I think all the excitement has sent you quite giddy.”  
  
A few steps, and she interposes herself between Lucy and Corin. She bends just a little, perhaps to ruffle his hair. The view she presents to Lucy is .. distracting. Lucy had not thought it was possible for her face to burn hotter.  
  
“Now, dear,” Susan is saying. “Let's get you in out of the cold. You'll catch your death. What was it you wanted me for?” She is brusque, matter of fact.  
  
“I want to give Lucy her present, but I can't find her.” As Corin speaks, Susan turns back to Lucy, and mouths at her for the second time that night, “Wait for me.”  
“Oh, is that all?” she says aloud. “I'm sure I saw her inside. Let's see if we can find her, shall we?” She ushers him away, his hand in hers. The last words that Lucy hears before they pass out of earshot are from Corin,  
“I'm confused. There's a person in there that everyone says is Lucy, but it's not. She doesn't look anything like Lucy. She looks like a boy.”  
Each and every time, Lucy is convinced that her heart cannot sink any further. Each and every time, she is wrong.  
  
**  
  
The stillness that follows _isn't_ , not exactly. The sounds of the night are as loud as ever, and the buzz from within is getting more insistent. They're nothing compared to the cacophony in Lucy's head.  
She sits statue-still, her hands in her lap, breathing slow and deep. She's shaking, just a little. Her teeth are chattering. Perhaps it is simply the cold, but she couldn't vouch for it.  
She puts a hand to her mouth, pulling at her lower lip, then licks her lips slowly. The smile that steals across her face is slow in coming but, as realisation hits her, Lucy feels like it could light up the garden, the whole world even.  
She waits. Basking finally in the glow of her triumph, she could wait all night.  
  
**  
  
She almost does. As the moon reaches its height and the temperature plummets, Lucy's anxiety grows.  
She creeps to her bed through unlit corridors whispering with the echoes of her own birthday celebration. She tells herself that Susan would have come back if she could, had every intention of doing so. She wants to believe it but she's not sure that she can.  
  
**  
  
She awakes with the dawn. Even from her bed she can tell that the day is inclement. There is a bluster to the wind that threatens far more violence later, and the rain is rattling the casements. The sun is too feeble to even attempt to claw its way past the heavy draperies.  
She moans, testing the sound out, seeing how well it fits her mood. Very well, apparently. She moans again, and this time she puts her heart into it. It's hard to tell which part of her feels worst, and she doesn't know exactly what she could have done to feel the way that she does. It's really not fair.  
She thinks back over the few short months, back to a similar awakening, equally pained and with even less reason. She knows it wasn't long ago, yet it feels like a lifetime. So much has changed. And yet she can't help but think that even more has stayed exactly the same.  
This morning, though, no inconvenient callers are intent on assaulting her door. If she's honest with herself (and she can't help but worry that she rarely is) Lucy is a little disappointed. She's still waiting, as bidden. Why won't Susan come?  
She can't wait for long, though. Her belly is aching and her throat is parched. Two necessities then: food and drink. And if she can get a little news of the previous night then so much the better. For all that her sister fills her thoughts she still has a little space to worry exactly what mischief Derren has managed to get up to. Aslan knows she's capable of causing enough trouble for herself without that wretched boy messing things up even further.  
And then there's Corin. The pit in her stomach yawns just a little wider.  
**  
The kitchens are cacophonous. They're rarely anything less, it's true, but she's never seen them quite like this. It seems that the entire castle has decided to break its fast at one and the same time. What remains of the usually bountiful repast looks like it has been ravaged by wild dogs, and nearly every stool, bench and open space has its occupant.  
Well then. At the very least, she should be able to find a suitable source of gossip in all this throng. Cair Paravel has its share of them.  
Lucy's luck (so faithless of late) does not betray her this time. Trencher and goblet in hand, casting around for a suitable place, she does not at first register the sound of her own name but when she does her response is unthinking. She turns to left and right, her thoughts sluggish, her head feeling like it has been stuffed with cotton. Face to face with the owner of the voice (voices, as it turns out) it is too late to pretend that she hasn't heard.  
  
 _Be careful what you wish for, Lucy. You might get it._  
  
She grits her teeth, entirely unsure whether her day is about to get better, or much worse. The twins, side by side, look dishevelled, tired, and as radiantly (disgustingly) lovely as ever. Lucy can't help the twinge of envy she feels when she sees them, never could.  
  
“Lucy, dear.” Rhiannon's smile is broad, all teeth. She flutters her fingers, a gesture Angharad mirrors. “We were just wondering if you'd emerge today. You did seem to have quite the thirst last night.”  
  
Harry, looking like she might have indulged a rather prodigious thirst herself the night before, waves a hand at the empty chair before them. Feeling a little hunted in spite of her desperate need for information (a hare cornered by dogs, nothing for it but to turn and fight) Lucy sits. She forces her sunniest smile.  
  
“Oh, I didn't drink all that much.” She laughs. “I thought I'd leave that to Gruffle and his friends. I don't even like the taste really.”  
  
Harry raises her eyebrows at that, though even that simple movement seems to pain her. Rhee, clearly feeling less delicate and always the more boisterous of the two, settles for a disbelieving snort.  
  
“Well, that didn't seem to stop you last night. Really, I was afraid you'd end up having to be carried to bed.”  
  
 _(Oh, Derren. What have you done?)_  
  
“You still managed to avoid us all night, though. We were really rather hurt.” Rhee's tone is gentle, playful even, yet still Lucy is convinced that there is an edge there too. She can't think how to respond. She covers her discomfort by setting her breakfast down and sitting in the proffered seat. She schools her face into a suitably remorseful expression.  
  
Harry comes to her rescue, ever the more sensitive twin, prodding her sister in the ribs somewhat pointedly.  
“Rhee, stop it. You're making her feel guilty.” She turns her smile back on Lucy. “Don't listen to her. I think she was too busy dragging Edmund around the dance floor to notice anything. They made such a pretty couple.” She has the most wicked grin and despite her discomfiture Lucy can't but smile back.  
  
Rhiannon looks less amused. “Hey, you cow. I wasn't dragging anyone anywhere. We just like to dance, that's all,” she says, a little sharply. “Edmund dances very well for someone so young.” Despite the huffiness of her tone Lucy can tell she's not really out of sorts. It's just the game they play with each other, have done as long as she can remember. Rhee winks at her, conspiratorial of a sudden. “She's just trying to distract me from the most important question,” she says, her voice a stage-whisper. “Which is: where were she and Rhyddion for most of the night and what exactly were they doing?”  
  
Lucy begins to relax. The back and forth of the twins' sparring is so familiar she finds it almost comforting. Harry is doing her best to defend herself, though her fondness for Rhyddion has been apparent for months. She plays the game out of habit most likely; she looks incredibly pleased with herself. Lucy smiles, happy for her in spite of all. And then:  
“Ooh, Lucy.” Rhee turns bright green eyes full on her. “Perhaps you'll have an idea of what's going on with that sister of yours. The Lion knows no one else seems to and you know what she's like, always so secretive.”  
  
Heart in her throat, still Lucy can't help but jump to her defence.  
  
“She's not that bad!” She thinks (hopes) that she's managed to inject a slight edge of indignation into her tone. Better that than the shocked squeak she barely manages to clamp her teeth over. “She has so much on her mind, that's all.” She mumbles to a halt.  
  
Harry's eyes are on her too now. She's been looking progressively paler (a feat, to be sure; the twins are paper white at the best of times). Her chin now rests heavily in the crook of her elbow, mere inches from the table, yet the lift of her eyebrows, part question, part accusation, still manages to make Lucy feel like she's been pinned in place.  
  
A little more lively, and looking a lot less like she'd like nothing more than to sink through the table to the floor beneath, Rhiannon's expression still mirrors Harry's in ways that Lucy finds distinctly uncomfortable.  
“You _know_ , don't you?” Rhee's voice is accusing but gleeful.  
  
Harry is silent, her eyes never leaving Lucy's face. It's not at all likely that either of them will be distracted by Lucy's sudden interest in her breakfast, but she really can't think of any other way to respond. She drinks slowly, her mind racing. The water is cool and refreshing and it doesn't help in the slightest.  
“Know what?” she asks, doing her best to feign ignorance.  
  
Rhee takes a deep breath, keen to share, apparently. “Well, it seems that little Prince Corin, when he wasn't terrorising everyone, caught your beloved sister lip to lip with – well, that's the point. Corin doesn't know who, or he isn't saying, and of course Susan's just laughing it off. It really is causing quite the buzz.”  
It feels like the water she has just drunk has frozen in her belly. The cup is shaking in her hand. She sets it down carefully.  
  
“I'm sure if Susan says it's nothing then we should think no more of it.” Her voice sounds stilted to her own ears, prim even. “And besides, Corin's very young and it was late. Perhaps he was just seeing things. It was very dark in the garden, after all.”  
  
Even as the words pass her lips she's cursing her own stupidity. Rhiannon is merciless.  
“See, you do know. I didn't tell you _where_ Corin saw her.”  
  
It seems to Lucy that anything she could possibly say will only serve to confirm Rhee's suspicions, but she can't help herself.  
“Um. Well where else would she be, if this supposed kiss even took place? It was such a lovely night. I think it's romantic.” She's already contradicting herself. Oh, _Aslan_. She struggles on. “Really, you two. Why is it even important? Just because all the other tattle-tales can't still their tongues for five minutes that doesn't mean you have to make it worse. You're her friends. Isn't that more important?”  
  
Rhiannon has the grace to look chastened, at least a little. Angharad simply looks paler and even more ill.  
“Oh, Lucy, I didn't mean anything by it. Neither of us do. You do know that, don't you? We just want to see her happy, that's all.” Rhiannon smiles a little ruefully. “Though I will grant you that I might not show it as often as I should.”  
  
It's impossible even to pretend to be angry with either of the twins for long; Lucy feels guilty already. (She wonders again when it was that guilt became so familiar to her. It seems a long time ago).  
“It's all right.” She reaches across the table and touches Rhee's hand briefly. “I know you mean well. It's just... please, if you care, please leave this. Please.” She ends on a gabble, suddenly desperate to be somewhere, _anywhere_ , else. “It's hard enough as it is. Please don't make it worse.”  
  
The twins look baffled; Harry is so completely out of her depth now that she can barely do anything but stare, lips parted, brow furrowed. Rhee, eyes clearer, yet shows no more sign of comprehension.  
  
Her heart pounding, the blood rushing in her ears, Lucy is aware above all that she has just made everything much worse. She does the one thing she knows how to do, the one thing she is good at (and when did she become so good at it?). With a few incoherent words of apology she turns and she walks away, chaos in her wake. She can hope that no one else will recognise the wilfully dignified exit as a retreat, or unravel the chaos enough to comprehend the reason for it. Sometimes she thinks that hope is all she has. She dreads the day that she loses even that.  
  
**  
  
In contrast to the cacophony of the kitchens, and the greater cacophony in her head, the rest of Cair Paravel is deathly quiet. Even the everyday bustle is muted. The few people - beast and human – that she passes move quietly on bare or softly-shod feet. They smile warmly as she passes, with only the slightest touch of deference (yet still more than she would have liked). Sensitive to it as she is, Lucy can see nothing of criticism or condemnation in their faces. Pausing at one of several doors that will lead her out into the fresh morning air, she tries her best to slow her breathing. The incipient panic, so close to overwhelming her in the face of the twins' calm, questioning gaze, has subsided to her customary twinge of near-constant anxiety. She needs to be away from here, away from the chance of having to see or, Aslan forbid, actually _talk_ to, anyone. Outside it is grey and unsettled. There are signs of rain. There'll be a storm soon. How very fitting.  
Lucy hugs herself, cloakless and already regretting her lack of foresight. A gust of wind takes her hair and blinds her briefly. All the same, it's invigorating. It's enough to tempt her away from warmth and shelter, out into the gardens. At least there she'll find the solitude she so desperately needs.  
  
**  
  
She can't help wishing that the weather wouldn’t match her mood quite so closely (or perhaps it's the other way around?) She can see the faintest line of gold edging the grey of the clouds. Maybe she'll feel better when the sun finally shows its face but not now. She doesn't even know why. She could not say that everything had gone to plan, she doubts that she'll ever be able to say that, and yet she had got what she wanted, even if it wasn't exactly everything she had dreamed. How is that not enough?  
  
And then she knows. The niggle that has been worrying at the back of her mind all morning, all night in fact, disguised for the most part by paranoia and panic, finally shows itself. And it's simply this: it's _not_ enough. She can't remember a time when one of anything has ever been enough. How had she thought that a kiss would be any different.  
She had been so convinced that it would make things better.  
  
It's made them worse.  
  
**  
  
She's not at all surprised when her aimless feet lead her to the Walled Garden, its gate closed but unbolted. And while she's a little more surprised to discover Susan, humming softly to herself, her chin in her hands, it _is_ only a little more.  
The bench is dark with rain, the wind seems to be gathering itself, building up to a crescendo that won't be long in coming. Yet there Susan sits, oblivious. Oblivious, that is, to the world beyond the garden's four walls. Lucy could swear that she has made no sound and yet,  
  
“Lucy. I thought you would come.” Susan doesn't even look up.  
  
Irritation claws at her throat, struggling to find a voice. (Predictably. They are sisters after all). She clamps down on it, barely.  
“I waited ages. You _told_ me to wait for you so I did. What, were you just playing with me?” She hates how petulant she sounds, how young.  
  
Susan does look up now, her face clouding a little. “I know. I'm sorry. I, ah, I think I had a little too much to drink. Every time I tried to get away someone would try to talk to me or dance with me. I'm afraid I deeply offended the Calormene ambassador by refusing to dance with him, but Lune did ask first and I'm sure it would have been very rude to turn him down just to keep His Excellency Imenes bin Imredin happy. I did try to find him afterwards but honestly I think he was more interested in nursing his wounded pride. Really, our relations with Calormen would be so much more cordial if the Tisroc were to choose a less, um, pompous representative. “  
  
Lucy smiles tightly, her annoyance no closer to subsiding. “Well, yes. He always was rather too keen to take offence, everybody says so. But I'm sure you did everything you could. You're usually so considerate, after all.”  
  
The barb misses Susan entirely. It doesn't help Lucy's mood.  
“Thank you, dear.” Susan laughs, winces, some other memory apparently struggling to the front of her mind. “I fear little Corin may have sparked something of a scandal. My virtue is doubtful all of a sudden, apparently.”  
  
“Oh?” Lucy asks, all innocence.  
  
“I suppose it was always going to be impossible to stop him from spreading rumours. Ah well, it can't be helped. Imagine how uncomfortable it would be if it truly had been some secret tryst,” she says, laughing again.  
  
Lucy doesn't have to imagine. She's staring at the ground, her face burning (did she always blush so easily? She can't recall). She can't stop the words she finds on her tongue though part of her (most of her) knows she should.  
  
“But. You kissed me back.” It's barely a whisper (and not true, not really). The noise of the wind should have saved her. Oh Aslan, please let it be so.  
She forces herself to meet Susan's eyes and knows immediately that luck and weather aren't with her, not today. She watches her face, can almost read her thoughts. And after so long, there it is. Realisation. Her already pale skin pales further. There's something horribly like pity in her eyes.  
  
“Oh.” Her whisper is almost drowned by the oncoming storm. It doesn't matter. “Oh Lucy.”  
  
Lucy can't bear it. She's starting to feel like she spends half her life fleeing in embarrassment and shame. Why stop now?

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, the total extent of my writing fail this year has to be experienced to be believed. less than 4000 words here and it's taken me months, one way or another. It's just lucky I have no ambitions to write for an actual living, I guess!  
> At the start of the year I'd rather hoped that I could finish this before 2013, but now that's seeming rather unlikely. Oh well, we shall see. Perhaps I'll overcome my writer's block and complete failure of motivation some time soon. I'm not holding my breath though!
> 
> Once again, huge thanks to [likecharity](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/), who took time out of her currently raging 1Direction obsession to beta for me. When something's dragged on for quite this long it's tricky to find willing betas so thank you loads, you're a star! ♥♥♥
> 
> Two years in the writing now, and 25000 words. I'll finish this if it kills me XD 
> 
> **Dedication:** And this part's for Kati, who knows why :) ♥♥♥
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine has an altercation and discovers that she has a lot to learn on the subject of diplomacy.

Autumn crawls towards winter and still it gets no better. She had thought she would stop being surprised that it doesn't, that every flickering light of hope is extinguished long before it can take hold, leaving the darkness all the more profound, and yet. She's done the only thing she could think of, the thing she'd dreamed of for so long. Perhaps she should have thought past that but she simply wasn't able.  
She feels so stuck, paralysed with indecision, waiting breathlessly for something – anything – to happen. When it does, it's a little too late for her to say, 'Anything but _that_ '. Will she never learn?

**

There's no escape, none. Lucy isn't sure how she managed to miss that hateful bray. Is she really that self-involved? (She chooses not to answer that).  
Perhaps she's being punished.

_Aslan knows, I deserve it._

She can't turn and flee. That would be an indignity too far. She grits her teeth and rounds the corner. She'd been so close to safety. Just not close enough.  
The Calormene ambassador, Imenes bin Imredin, looks, if possible, more unpleasant than ever and sounds even worse. He halts himself in the middle of a furious verbal careen (the young Calormene whom he's been berating, at least, must be grateful for that) and hails Lucy. 

“The felicitations of a cold, dark day to you, your little Highness. May Tash the Overwhelming bring you joy of it,” he says. 

Even from half a corridor away, Lucy can see the smile on his lips. Her mood is less than good as it is. She clamps down on the response she so desperately wants to give - “little highness” indeed! - and smiles coolly at him.

“Ambassador Imenes. How delightful. I have so recently been thinking that I've missed your charm and wit. You've been so busy, and so absent.”

“It grieves me also that I may not honour the most charming of my hosts more often, Highness,” he says, taking her lie at face value apparently. The way his eyes flicker over her suggest a truth in his own words that makes her flesh crawl and her hackles rise. 

“As ever, you are too kind,” Lucy says, through clenched teeth. “But I'm sure that you are a busy man. I would not wish to keep you from your duties any longer than necessary. I wish you a good day.”

She inclines her head (regally, she hopes) and makes to walk past.

_Be dignified. Don't rush._

Imenes takes the slightest step to the side and with that makes it impossible for her to pass without brushing hard against him. 

“But surely nothing is so important as pleasing Your Highness. I stand ready to serve you in any way that I can,” he says, showing his teeth in a smile that Lucy can't help but think of as wolfish. 

The crawling of her flesh is joined by a coldness in the pit of her stomach. She stops and forces herself to meet his eyes. She is not smiling now, not even a little bit.

“That will be quite unnecessary. And obviously I must remind you that you are to call me Majesty, not Highness. Your _Excellency_ ,” she says.  
Her heart is beating faster, blood is roaring in her ears. Suddenly she has no idea at all how this will end. She only knows that she can't back down now. 

The ambassador's smile -grin, almost – is fixed. He doesn't speak for some moments. Only a few seconds but it feels like forever. And then,  
“But of course,” he says. “Forgive me. I oft-times forget the formalities of your little kingdom. They are passing strange to one such as me.”

Lucy smiles again, her cold, tight smile, choosing to overlook the slight to her home.

“In my own land, I submit, no queen would allow herself to be accosted and kissed by a masked man in a moonlit garden. Clearly the dignity and virtue of queens in Narnia is something that is far beyond the understanding of your humble servant. Your Majesty.”

It takes a small while for her to fully comprehend his meaning because _surely_ he wouldn't dare … When she does, it's like a punch in the gut; she can't breathe, the roaring in her ears reaches a crescendo.  
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency,” she says, feigning a calm she most certainly doesn't feel. “I'm not sure to what you could possibly be referring. Because I'm certain you could not be attempting to cast aspersions on my royal sister.”  
She doesn't give him any opportunity to respond. The ambassador's companion looks like his dearest wish is for the ground to swallow him whole. For all Lucy cares, he may not even exist.  
“Her Majesty Queen Susan is a free woman of Narnia.” Lucy can't stop the rising edge of cold fury in her voice. “Her dignity and virtue, as you put it, are beyond reproach. How dare you! How dare a snivelling little worm like you stand there and even try to question them?”

_Oh Aslan, that's torn it._

“Do you think that, just because you've managed to creep and toady your way into the good graces of that monster you call a master you can stand there with impunity and insult my family, my country and my home? That just because I'm a woman you can say what you please? What is wrong with you?”

There's a part of her that can't help but enjoy the way the smirk vanishes from his face, the way his mouth falls open in shock. It's not the part of her that's speaking the words though. That part is past caring. 

“Listen to me very carefully, you putrescent pig.” _Oh no_. “Because you obviously haven't learnt anything at all in your time here. When you insult a creature of Narnia, be they human or beast, you insult us all, and when you insult my family you had better be sure of what you do because _I_ will be sure that you will pay for it.” Her voice is hoarse now. She realises that, all unknowing, she has been advancing on the ambassador who, at a loss as to how else to respond, has backed himself to the end of the corridor. He can go no further. 

“Now get out! Get out of my sight. And if you ever dare to speak to me again I shall have you thrown in the dungeons and we'll see if your Tisroc even cares enough to ask for your release.”

She wants to just turn and run – Aslan knows, it's what she usually does – but she's determined not to give him an inch. She steels herself, staring him down.  
For a moment it seems like he'll protest. He stands taller, shoulders squared. He sucks in his breath, his face twisted in fury. And then he blinks and his eyes slide downwards from her own. He slumps, just the slightest deflation but it's all that Lucy can do not to crow, in victory and relief. 

“My master, the Tisroc, may he live forever, will hear of this outrage. You will live to regret what has transpired here this day, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice a hiss.  
With the very slightest of bows he does his best to slip out of the corner that Lucy has backed him into. She doesn't move, doesn't step back; watching him edge along the wall to free himself makes her victory feel, if anything, even sweeter. Free at last, Imenes bin Imredin advances on his countryman and, before the poor man can flinch (and long before Lucy can believe what she's seeing) there is blood on his face. The sound of the blow, the sight of the young man's broken lip, it is all becoming too much for Lucy. She just wants to go. Anywhere.

“Azarin, you snivelling dog,” Imenes's voice is fraught with pent-up fury. “Are you a statue that you stand so mute? Move your stinking carcase or I shall ensure that you are never able to again.”

Neither of them look back. Holding herself very straight Lucy watches them go, a stream of invective in their wake. They vanish from sight in less than a minute. It seems far longer.  
Safe and alone, for now at least, Lucy draws in one long, ragged, breath and slumps. It's as if all her bones have turned to water; it's all she can do to stop herself crumpling completely. Instead, a hand on the wall at her side, she sinks slowly to the ground. 

**

She doesn't know how long she's been there. Not that long, surely? The door to the library is bare feet away, and well, the library of Cair Paravel may not be as well-frequented as it could be, but even so. She licks her lips. They're salt, wet with her own tears, freely streaming down her face, yet she's not crying. All her fury and tension, all her indignation, washes out of her. She shakes, tears flow, her breathing is ragged. She knows it would seem to anyone who found her like this that she's sobbing uncontrollably. That will never do. 

_Pull yourself together. You're being ridiculous_.

She wipes her eyes and pulls herself to her feet. Truth be told, she's feeling a little pleased with herself. It's a feeling she suspects no one else will share.  
Oh, what has she done?

**

Lucy awakes next morning to a very quiet uproar. Her morning walk from her own chambers to the kitchen takes her past any number of whispering couples. She's convinced that, more than once, concerned, angry, _judging_ looks are thrown in her direction. She's not stupid. She can see what's coming before it hits, but she still curses to herself as, her hand poised to push open the great kitchen door, she hears her name. 

“Lucy, there you are. By the Lion, what have been playing at?” Of course it had to be Peter. She's never heard him so angry. 

She has to force herself to turn to face him, guilt and embarrassment fighting righteous indignation within her, but when she does she comes out fighting. 

“Peter, honestly, aren't you going to ask my side before you get on your high horse?” she asks (and she hopes with all her heart that her voice doesn't sound as petulant as it does to her own ears). “He was being insufferably rude, and he insulted Susan. What would you have me do? Just stand there and let him?”

Peter's face is thunderous. His jerkin is half unlaced, his hair unruly.  
“Well you plainly don't think you behaved properly or else why would you know what I'm talking about?” he doesn’t quite scream. Even so Lucy can't tell if he's furious or simply exasperated. A little of both, she suspects.

“Of course I know what you're talking about. Or what? Are you saying that I mess up so much that I'd have to ask you to tell me which of my endless mistakes you're angry about today? I know I'm a disappointment to you. I know anyone else in Cair Paravel could do a better job of this than me, but don't you dare suggest I don't at least try. And don't make out that I'm stupid either. Do you think that helps?” She can feel herself losing control again. She's not quite screaming yet, either, but she's close.

“Aslan, Lu, you're hearing things again. When did I say you're stupid?” Peter asks her, a little more quietly now. He can never maintain his full, righteous fury in the face of Lucy's own anger. Being the youngest does have some benefits (though Lucy can never see it). “But really, you threaten to clap the Calormene ambassador in irons and you don't expect anyone is going to be even a little annoyed at you?”

“I didn't say anything at all about clapping him in irons!” she says furiously (because of course, clearly that's the most important point to get across). “You see, he's a liar as well as being insufferably arrogant.”

Peter raises his eyebrows and waits for her to continue. He has his arms crossed and he's drumming the fingers of his right hand against his left bicep. Lucy can never withstand that look for long. 

“Oh, all right. I said I'd have him thrown in the dungeons,” she says, far more calmly and more than a little sheepish.

“And that's obviously entirely different, and by no means a ridiculous thing to say.” His exasperation is clear now, it's drowned out the anger almost completely. He looks so, so tired. “Why did you do it? At least help me understand that.”

“Oh you know what he's like,” Lucy says, fumbling for the words. “He's just so rude, and he said that Susan was kissing strange men, and, and, the way he looks at me. It's like ...”  
She's struggling. She had felt so certain of her reasons before but as she grasps for them, tries to force them into words, she can feel them slipping away.  
“He's just horrible.” 

And yet again, she just manages to seem utterly pitiful.

Peter sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. She wishes she could tell him what he needs to hear. It feels like years since that's been even remotely possible.

** 

Barely half way through October and already the wind cuts to the bone. A couple of hours past noon, the light is wan, feeble, nothing more than the herald of the approaching twilight. As much as Lucy loves her home, on days like this, the sea a constant crash and roll, the clouds low and angry, she can't help the bleakness that settles over her. She hugs herself, her hands numbing even through gloves; hood and cloak near useless. She's ten feet or more from the cliff, she hadn't trusted herself, or the wind, to go closer, but ice still settles in her belly. A few steps, that's all it would take. A few steps, a few seconds, and then nothing.  
It's a fleeting thought, nothing more. She can't unravel the feelings it awakes in her and she doesn't want to try. 

“Ho, Your Majesty!” Even over the bluster of the wind the voice manages to sound both powerful and good-humoured. “Tis a wild day to be braving these cliff-tops.”  
Lune's voice. Hearing it somehow always makes Lucy smile and she smiles now, her bleak mood momentarily forgotten. Turning from the expanse of sky and ocean she can see him struggling up the headland towards her. Cair Paravel in the distance seems pure white in the gloom, reflecting what little light there is. She so often forgets how beautiful it is.  
Taking pity, Lucy doesn't force Lune to struggle all the way to meet her. He turns as she reaches him, offering her his arm as he does so. As so often when matters of state don't dictate otherwise, he's dressed simply, in hunting leathers. Lucy takes the proffered arm, curtseying playfully. He makes her feel young again and she's ever grateful for it.

“You are too kind, Your Majesty,” she says, trying (failing) to school her face into seriousness. “I do hope that you haven't braved the cold and wind on my account. I would hate for you to catch a chill for my sake.”

Smiling as he is he still looks troubled. He makes no pretence at maintaining Lucy's attempt at playful formality. “I would risk more than a chill for you, Lucy, you may forever be assured of that,” he says. “And though I do love to be abroad on days such as this, the ocean has never been a favourite vista of mine. The forest and the mountains will always hold the first place in my heart.  
”  
“Do you miss Archenland terribly?” Lucy asks.

“Every day. But it has been a few short weeks only, and I will see my home again soon enough. Sooner, perhaps, than I ever anticipated.” There is the slightest edge to this voice, a thing so unusual in him that it makes Lucy stop and turn to face him. She says nothing but she's certain that her face asks all the questions that she could ever want to.  
“Ah yes, perhaps news of the most recent development has failed to reach this cliff top,” Lune says, a small smile on his lips. “It appears that his esteemed Excellency Imenes bin Imredin has been causing a great stir yet again. He appears to have taken some sort of offence at _something_.” He shakes his head. His look of exasperation is very much the twin to Peter's though in Lune it makes Lucy feel guilty rather than infuriated. “Whatever did you say to him, my dear? Whatever it was, it was really most effective. I haven't seen that amount of self-righteous outrage in many a moon.”

He has a way of asking questions without seeming to criticise that her brothers and Susan can never seem to manage (at least, not where Lucy is concerned). She knows she should feel guilt (and it is, after all, her most practised response) but instead there is mostly relief. Yes, she's ruined everything, again, and caused endless trouble for everyone, _again_ , but at the very least Lune will understand. Won't he?

**

The King of Archenland has had his own private apartments at Cair Paravel for as long as anyone can remember, just as Narnia's rulers have their chambers at the castle at Anvard (so long unused , waiting forlorn and empty, during that long, hard Winter). Lune – unpretentious and seemingly ever cheerful – has stamped his own personality in every little part of the rooms that Lucy follows him into. They are grand and imposing yet Lune has managed to make them feel warm and comforting. Very much, in fact, like himself. 

Speaking a few words to a pleasant-looking young secretary (and Lucy wonders how it's possible that she could never have noticed him before) Lune ushers her into a rather cluttered and cosy drawing room. It feels so long since she was last here. She remembers playing with Corin here when she was barely older than the prince is now. She smiles, wondering what mischief he's getting himself into. There's always something.  
Brightly coloured tapestries cover the walls; there are thick, fluffy rugs on the floor and draped over settles that a person could just sink into and never want to leave. The castle at Anvard graces one of the walls, so delicately sewn that Lucy has always fancied that, if she were to put an eye to one of the windows, she could see the hustle and bustle of activity within. It's a scene of high summer, Anvard at its most beautiful, the sun high in the sky, a hunting party gathered just before the gate. Lush, green forests; lofty peaks that leave Lucy feeling more than a little light-headed; valleys and rivers and sparkling blue meres. All this and more is spread across the walls before her, in warp and weft. It almost makes her homesick for Archenland herself. 

A queen in her own castle, she knows she need not wait for permission to sit but she does so anyway. She loves the old king more than enough to show him that courtesy. Lune points Lucy to an overstuffed settle (all greens and golds and browns. Forest colours, Lune's favourites). She curls into it, tucking her feet under her, as unselfconscious, for once, as a cat. Lune himself takes a straight-backed and rather uncomfortable looking chair at a desk laden with neatly arranged parchment rolls and books; he clears a space for his elbows and leans heavily forward, his eyes fixed on Lucy's, a reassuring smile on his lips. 

“Well, my dear. It has been far too long since we have spoken at length. I have been remiss, I think. But so, perhaps, have you,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. “We've hardly seen each other since I arrived, and you were sadly absent for your own birthday ball. Not that it wasn't a most enjoyable and eventful affair, all the same.”

Lucy winces (inwardly only, she hopes) and smiles rather weakly.  
“Um, yes, it was certainly lively,” she says. “It's strange that you didn't see me though. I saw you. You looked wonderful. Very dashing.”

“Why, thank you. I did my best to honour your special day. Though I think that your mind was on more pressing things than the celebration of another year survived.” Lune's eyes are clear and bright and they bore into her own as he speaks. 

Lucy can feel a prickly heat flowing upwards, from her chest, up her neck, until her whole face burns. She swallows reflexively, but of a sudden her mouth is dust-dry. It is all she can do not to drop her eyes and stare at the floor, shamefaced. Shatterstaff, at least, would be proud of her. How long has he spent drumming it into her? No free creature, and assuredly no queen of Narnia, should ever be ashamed to meet another's gaze. Though, honestly, she should at least be able to say something too, shouldn't she? Staring dumbly does no one much good. 

There is a rap on the door, followed momentarily by the bustling of Lune's secretary, returning with a tray on which he bears two steaming goblets. The smell of hot, spiced wine hits Lucy's nostrils.

“Ah, Dara, my good man,” Lune says, mercifully releasing Lucy's eyes. “Thank you, thank you. You are just in time. I think Her Majesty's throat is a little parched. Leave them on the table, would you? I do hope you have a goblet for yourself? No? You really must. It's far too bitter a day to be undefended from the elements, even indoors. Do go and fetch one for yourself. And perhaps you could be so good as to retrieve the rest of the flagon while you're about it?”

Unable to do anything but nod and smile over his king's unceasing chatter, it is mere seconds before Dara is absent once more, leaving only the wine in his wake.  
Rising from his chair and taking up a goblet with a little flourish Lune bears it over to Lucy. He waits, rather solicitously, watching intently as she takes a long draught. Red and rich, the wine warms her to her toes. It does little to loosen her tongue, though, nor to calm the patter of her heart. At least now she'll have something on which to blame the flush in her cheeks.  
Seemingly at least partly satisfied, Lune seats himself once more as Lucy lowers the cup and wipes stray droplets of wine fastidiously from her lips with thumb and forefinger. 

“It's not so long ago that I forget what it's like to be young, you know,” Lune says. His eyes are half-closed. “Life is .. confusing. No less so for a monarch than a commoner, I suspect. Though, of course, at your age I was simply a younger son with little enough idea of my future. Not that I ever wanted to be king.”  
His smile is sad, just a little. It is Lucy's turn to fix him with her gaze now. He stares ahead, apparently entirely unaware of the room around him. Perhaps the images that grace the walls have formed a brightly coloured window into his past. Lucy is perfectly aware that he is deliberately putting her at her ease and she loves him for it all the more.  
“I was a little younger than you are now when I fell in love for the first time.” And while there's still something of wistfulness in his tone his eyes are back on hers, far too quickly for her to look away. 

“Um, love?” She feels like a rabbit in that moment of frozen indecision before it flees the fox. She tries desperately to think of something else to say, and fails. 

“My dear Lucy! I'm sure you think that I'm far too old for such things,” (she doesn't; she never has,) “but I do recognise the signs, you know. It's a positive wonder to me that Susan and your brothers didn't realise. Oh, don't worry,” he continues, as Lucy's eyes widen in alarm. “They have learned nothing from me, though they've all asked my advice in the last few weeks.  
“Really, I don't know what the world's coming to. They're sensitive, intelligent young people, and yet they can't see what's in front of their faces. I really don't know.”  
Lune harrumphs to himself and takes a long pull on his wine.  
“Would it be very rude of me to ask the name of the fortunate young gentleman in question?”

She knows she should lie. It would be so easy to make something – anything – up. But she's hidden the truth for so long. The idea that she can tell at least a small part of it is far too much for her. Perhaps the wine has loosened her tongue after all. It certainly hasn't hurt. 

“Not a gentleman,” she mumbles, feeling the heat redouble in her cheeks. 

“Ah, a commoner then?” Lune asks, with barely a pause. “A matter of no consequence. If _you_ consider him to be worthy then the matter of his birth is as nothing.”

The words come before she can stop them.

“Not a _him_ , either.” Hmm, that could have been expressed more eloquently, but that's the least of her concerns now.

She studies the goblet in her hands intently. It is silver, simply formed but delicately engraved, trees and deer flowing across its surface. She is more than grateful that she can only see her reflection in the most fragmented way. Lune's reply is longer in coming this time, but only by a handful of seconds. 

“Ah, well, that’s...” 

Unable to look him in the face, Lucy can still hear the surprise in his voice. He’s struggling to find the right words; he’s not a man who’s easily surprised so the speed of his recovery is surprising in itself. 

“Well I never!” At least there is good humour rather than shock in his exclamation. “I will admit that I had not quite expected that response. Although I’ll tell you a secret.” (He is playfully conspiratorial now, taking the revelation in his stride after only the smallest stumble.) “I suspect that the court would have had far greater difficulty accepting a commoner as your paramour than they will a woman. Or is she a commoner also? No matter if she is. All these things can be dealt with, one way or another.”

She still cannot look at him. _Obviously_ she can’t look at him. What had she expected?

“Well now, how very intriguing. And you don’t feel able to share her identity yet? I understand. I’m sure just that admission was difficult enough.” And now, Aslan bless him, smoothly if rather obviously, he changes the subject. “But I’ve pried into the affairs of your heart long enough, don’t you think? Mayhap we should discuss matters of state? There is much that would bear discussion. The Calormene ambassador for one.”  
Lucy listens, making all the right responses, her heart pounding, her teeth chattering, in shock or relief, she doesn’t know which. (She can’t decide whether she would have told him more had he asked. She almost wishes he had.) Thankfully, Lune, sensitive to her state of mind, requires little in the way of coherent replies.

“Well, it would seem that his Excellency has a greater store of self-regard than any one of us might have imagined. No, really, it’s not the best trait, even for a representative of a man like the Tisroc.”

“Whatever has he done? What would he dare do?” She tries to shake off her own self-involvement long enough to show _some_ sort of interest.

“Ah yes, well that’s the crux of it, you see. He’s done the only thing he could do to fully express his dissatisfaction, apparently. He has left Cair Paravel.”

It’s as if she’s watching her own life from outside, able to see and hear, able to watch everything that happens in painful detail. And entirely unable to do a thing to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And still I fail at writing, apparently!  
> This part took about two months, and this is the first part I've posted since the end of June!  
> I'd say that I'd like to finish this by the summer at the latest, but then I really wanted to finish it by 2013, and well, as 2013 starts in 3 hours and 26 minutes (though not by my laptop. My laptop has gained time ever since I managed to pour half a cup of tea into it. Whoops! But it's a miracle that it still works at all and isn't just a very expensive piece of wire, metal and plastic so I should be grateful for that, I guess!) that seems rather unlikely! But hey, I have the rest planned out quite closely now and at the most it's going to be 2 more parts and an epilogue so, erm, done by next Christmas? Let's call it that, shall we, and then I can feel all pleased with myself if I get it finished before.  
> I fear that I'm trying the patience of even the most tolerant reader at this point (and not just with my rambling) but this long ago turned into an exercise in shear determination to finish what I started so all I can do is apologise for that, I'm afraid :)  
> But even after so long, I'm still loving the characters and I'm enjoying writing them, and that's the whole point of writing as a hobby, so :)
> 
> I'll stop waffling now!
> 
> As always, I'd like to thank [likecharity](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/), for her betaing and encouragement. You're fabulous! Thank you ♥♥♥
> 
>  
> 
>  **Dedication:** For anyone who reads this far (and I don't actually expect many (or any) people on my f-list to actually read the story :D) I want to dedicate this to all of you, in hopes that you have a wonderful New Year and a fabulous 2013 full of happiness, joy and love ♥♥♥
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a culmination and our heroine's life becomes immeasurably more complicated.

Lucy can’t remember a December this warm. Mostly the prevailing winds from the Great Eastern Ocean have turned Cair Paravel utterly frigid by mid-November, yet she wakes one morning barely a fortnight before Christmas to yet another day of crisp, sun-drenched beauty. The view from her bedroom window is one of bright blue skies, a dark sapphire ocean, the headland still fresh and green. It can't last. Lucy almost hopes that it won't. It seems like her beloved Narnia is doing her best to shake Lucy out of a mood that she's determined to wallow in. Lucy isn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed.

She hugs a blanket around herself to fend off a draught, eyes still dim from sleep. She's very tempted to burrow back into her bed and sleep the day away. Whatever is the point of being queen if you can't do what you want at least sometimes?

But no. Her siblings are of the school of thought that values duty over caprice. Most irritatingly, it seems to have rubbed off on her.

**

She'd very nearly brought her blanket with her. She wishes she had now. All she wants to do is put her head on the council table, snuggle up as best she can, and sleep till noon. She could probably manage it too.  The council chamber is a good deal cosier than the Great Hall and, despite the unseasonable weather, the fire has clearly been well fed since daybreak. The atmosphere is heavy, soporific.  Woollen hose, shirt, and doublet are doing very little to help. Head on her arms, lids drooping, she struggles to stay awake. Mid-yawn she meets Susan's eyes, boring into her own. Well, at least Susan has to look at her to express her silent disapproval. She has been signally unwilling to do that for weeks now.  
The table is barely half full. It makes it all the more difficult for Susan to avoid Lucy’s gaze and all the more blatant that she's doing her very best to do just that. Harry and Rhee have their places to Susan's right and left. Mrs Beaver, in her habitual place at Lucy's left hand, is knitting (though Lucy knows well enough that she's perfectly aware of everything that's going on around her, _thank you so much_ ). With both Shatterstaff and Edmund absent, only distance separates Mrs Beaver from her husband.

Peter, too, is abroad, and Rhyddion and Tumnus also. It makes for a much reduced and rather subdued council. Still, Susan takes the reigns as comfortably as ever, though at this precise moment she's looking distinctly troubled. She has an eye on the window. Lucy wonders whether the serenely blue skies and their fluffy white clouds are as much of an irritant to her sister's mood as they are to her own.

“Well then,” Susan says with a sigh. “We've had not one word of Peter and the others. I fear that they will be absent from our Christmas celebrations. We can only hope that they are on the road and will return any day now, but it grieves me to say that we must plan for the worst.” There's a slump to her shoulders. She looks tired and unhappy. “It seems that Edmund and Shatterstaff have decided to stay in Anvard for Christmas. It was the most  ridiculous mission to begin with, and now it will keep them away from us at our most special time.”  
Of course Susan resolutely avoids looking at Lucy when she says it.

“And there's no news from Peter at all?” asks Angharad.

“None. It seems that he, Rhyddion, and Tumnus have been delayed Underland. Time is hard to follow there, or so I have heard,” Susan says.

Harry looks dejected. (Rhee too, though she is at least slightly more successful at hiding it). There is sympathy on Susan's face as she turns her head to look at her friend. She places a gentle hand on her shoulder. Harry smiles brightly in response.

“So,” Susan continues, her own smile just as bright as she turns it on the council once more. “We have a lot to discuss. Let's get on, shall we?”

She doesn't wait for a response.

**

Mrs Beaver knits.  Derren records. They both make incisive comments when the need arises. Mr Beaver grumbles and blusters.  
Susan is brusque, efficient, sweet, controlling proceedings with ease.  
And Lucy? Lucy is utterly miserable. She's beginning to think her sister will never talk to her normally again.

**

 _Finally_ the council ends (though Lucy was certain for a while that it never would). It breaks up quickly, Harry and Rhee, and the Beavers too, squabbling good naturedly between themselves. Derren meets Lucy's eye for a long, slightly pained, moment, concern written across his face. Lucy smiles, a smile as bright and fake as any she has ever attempted. Derren must know it for a lie. He raises his eyebrows and completely fails to return the smile. Clearly he's waiting to leave the chamber at her side.  
_Oh that's all I need._

A sharp shake of her head joins the bright, fake smile. She flickers her fingers at him, shooing him out. He's unhappy (clearly), unconvinced (almost certainly), but he complies all the same, with a final, reproachful, glance.

And so Lucy is left standing alone in the council chamber, nose to a window pane, hugging herself miserably. There is the yew alley, away and below, green as summer still, and she remembers a day last spring – so close? Really? It feels like forever. And what has she done? She feels like she's spent most of the last year dragging herself up one ridiculous hill another, and she's not even sure what she's struggling towards any more. Whatever it may have been, it feels not one jot closer. Quite the reverse, in fact.

She realises, finally, bitterly, that she's just tired of it all.

**

Her sister proves to be elusive. She has that knack. It’s annoying at the best of times. She’s not in her chambers (a good 5 minutes of knocking and yelling have established that). Neither has she graced the library, kitchens, or Great Hall with her presence, and when finally Lucy finds herself at the solid, unpretentious door of the Small Hall she is breathless, hot, just a little irritable, and even more miserable.

The hall is even more unbearably close than the council chamber. Lucy is surprised to find it occupied at all, yet there is Harry, tea cup poised half-way between saucer and lips, staring deep into the fire that is roaring in the grate. She takes a few moments to shake herself from her reverie (and in those moments her eyes look sad, troubled) but her smile once she has done so is as warm as ever.

It seems that Lucy has become incapable of _not_ wearing her heart on her sleeve. She winces inwardly at the pity in Harry’s eyes. She wants to tell her that she’s not broken, not sad, she’ll be perfectly ok if everyone would just stop looking at her like that. She doesn’t have the energy. It’s so much easier to submit herself to the sympathy, unwanted or no. At least she doesn’t have to suffer it for long, even if she does have to force that hurt look from her mind as she goes on her way.

( _And still she hurts everybody._ )

**

 _Try the stables._ That’s what Harry had told her. Lucy hadn’t really believed that Susan would just up and ride (Edmund perhaps, but not Susan), yet here Lucy is, and ride, it seems, Susan has. The paddock is wide and spacious, gate ever open, the ‘stables’ so much more than that (such complexities, when your steed is your friend and equal too). They are mostly unoccupied yet luck is with her.  Holly whickers at her from a cosy corner, sleepy and comfortable-looking.

“Lucy, daaaaarling,” she says in that lazy, good-humoured whinny of hers. “So long since you’ve visited. I’ve missed you. My morning gallop is so much less enjoyable without you.”

“Holly,” Lucy says, both happy and remorseful. “I’ve missed you too, truly I have. I fear my friendship has left very much to be desired these last few months. You’re not the only one I’ve neglected. Can you ever find it in yourself to forgive me?”

Holly doesn’t reply immediately, instead busying herself with rolling onto her feet. She looks like she would have preferred to stay lying there for at least an hour or two longer. Lucy is all sympathy. Standing at last, Holly is soon at Lucy’s side, soft lips brushing her ear in a kiss.

“There is nothing to forgive, dear one,” she says, her breath warm on Lucy’s face. “So, can it be coincidence that Susan was just here? And she so neglectful too, these last month. Could it be that you have something you need to say to her?”

“Holly, don’t tease me, please,” Lucy sighs. “Other days, just not today, all right?”

For all that a horse could never be said to have the most piercing of gazes, yet still Holly’s black, liquid eyes freeze Lucy in place. Lucy shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot in silence. And then,

“Well then,” Holly says, a hint of a laugh in the movement of her head and the music of her voice. “A gallop perhaps? It would do us both good. And who knows who we might meet?”

**

_It's ten minutes' hard ride to the outskirts of the forest, half an hour more to a suitable glade._

They have passed no one, human or animal, and it surprises her. For all her sadness she would be happy for more company. She’s not even sure that they’re going to _that_ place. But, it’s where it started. It would be fitting for it to end there.

And yet she doesn’t direct Holly. There never was any directing her, a free horse of Narnia goes where she wills. Lucy is too busy luxuriating in the winter sun, crisp and bright, but warm also; skies of pale blue, clouds the colour of the snow that should be underfoot (probably will be, not too far into the new year. Narnia’s winters are usually predictable). Gulls cry, the only other living things now. No sign of her sister, no sign of anyone. Holly comes to a halt at the edge of the forest, breathing hard. She whinnies delightedly.  
There is no other noise. It seems unreal that it should be so, and yet. Lucy cannot even detect the sound of her own breath, and the breeze on her face is as silent. The world is a picture, stripped of noise. She feels _muffled_ , half asleep. She wants to ask where Holly is taking her. She can’t summon the energy. Besides, she _knows_.

**

The glade is exactly as she remembers it. _Exactly_. There is even less sign of winter here; it’s as if it has been trapped in time, preserved in amber. Not a fallen leaf, the grass as green and lush as spring. It’s seems impossible, miraculous. Perhaps it is.

Susan is alone, no sign of Fern (“her” horse, _though one might as well say that Susan is_ her _human_. Somehow she doesn’t seem to have heard Lucy’s approach. Although she has made no attempt at stealth, still every noise seems deadened. Holly is a few minutes behind her, cropping grass beside a stream, and the noise of her contented whiffling had followed Lucy for a matter of a only few footsteps. And now there is peace; soft, comforting.

Lucy watches her sister from the shadows for the briefest moment. She has laid out a blanket, another round her shoulders. There is a pillow beside her, and saddle bags, but she simply sits, arms round her legs, head on her knees. Her hair is loose, pooling on the ground around her. Lucy’s breath catches a little at the sight of it. In the silence it reverberates like a sneeze. Susan doesn’t look up, yet Lucy thinks she detects a stiffening in her, a twitch in her otherwise motionless form. And as she draws the deepest, quietest of breaths, desperately trying to decide what she should do, or say, that’s when Susan does look. Her eyes find Lucy’s in moments. There’s nothing, nothing at all, she could do to avoid it, even if she wanted to.

Caught red-handed, she does her best to look innocent. Probably she falls far short. Casual, nonchalant, relaxed, innocent. Lucy can’t help feel that none of these words have applied to her for a long, long time (or, possibly, ever).

One look at Susan's face makes perfectly clear how much of a mess Lucy has made of it. Again. She looks tired. Her eyes are red and puffy. Lucy didn’t think it was possible to feel any more wretched. She was wrong.   

Even as Lucy is reaching for _something_ to say Susan rises to her feet, palming her eyes for a brief moment, as if to wipe away tears. She drops the blanket as she approaches Lucy and enfolds her in a tight, fierce hug. It doesn’t help Lucy’s ability to form words.

Where before Susan had been bathed in a shaft of sunlight, here she is in shadow, her face only partly visible. It makes it a little easier. Still, not the deepest gloom could hide the way that her sister looks at her, or rather fails to look. She’ll hug her, it seems, yet she is still unable to meet Lucy's eye.

Susan draws breath to speak but Lucy is determined now. Here is where it ends.

“Lucy dear, I …,” is all that Susan can utter. Lucy allows her to go no further.

“I'm sorry. I'm just sorry, all right? I don't know what I was thinking, I just know I can't bear this any more,” Lucy says, all in a rush. The more she says the less she feels able to stop herself. “You can't even stand to look at me. And I know it's all my fault and don't you think that I'd take it back if I could? I just want things to be back the way they were before and I don't know how they ever can be and I've broken everything and caused everyone trouble and I don't even know how it all started but I just wish I could stop it and I can't. And I'm sorry.” She talks herself to a breathless halt, tears stinging her eyes, knowing that if ever she lets herself cry she won't be able to stop for the longest time.  
Lucy thinks that this must be what heartbreak feels like.

Susan is still, her face unreadable. Silence settles over them again, broken only by the sound of Lucy’s breathing. She hates how desperate it sounds - harsh and and high, like an animal in pain - but she just can't bring it under control. Susan looks grim and unhappy, her jaw set, her eyes lowered. Lucy waits for as long as she can stand. It's not long.

“Please, just say something, will you? Please?” Her voice cracks on the last word. It won't be long now before the tears come.

And that is when it happens. She doesn't see it coming. How could she? One moment, Susan is stock-still, silent, totally impassive. The next, there is the brush of her lips against Lucy’s own, her arms circling Lucy's shoulders awkwardly, their noses bumping. Aslan knows, it's hardly as Lucy dreamed it, yet there it is. And clumsiness, awkwardness, words regretted and unspoken, none of it matters now.  
It’s a hard kiss, angry even, bruising her teeth, leaving her breathless, but it's unequivocal. It lasts a few seconds at most, mere fleeting moments gone all too quickly, but it changes everything.

Susan pulls back from it so quickly that Lucy stumbles slightly. She realises that her arms are hanging limply at her sides. Her eyes are closed, her mouth half open. She must look like a complete idiot. She closes her mouth concertedly, opens her eyes, but otherwise entirely fails to collect herself.

“There, are you happy now?” Susan is breathing hard. She sounds furious. “You say you're sorry but really Lucy, did you want to do this to me? Do you like that you have? Oh _Aslan_ , what were you _thinking_?”

And for once, it is Susan who flees, though she doesn't go far. Scooping up first one blanket, then the other, she tries fumblingly to force them into the saddles bags for a few moments. Defeated, she crumples to the grass. She's sobbing, drawn out, racking, sounds, each one an almost physical pain to Lucy. Her heart feels squeezed, it's all that she can do to draw breath and even then her own breathing is ragged.

Staring at her own feet, paralysed, and in a moment so inappropriate she wants to cry herself, she remembers it vividly: this same woodland grove in spring; leaves and shade and sunlight; her own breathless silence; wordless ecstasies, moans and cries.  
There is a familiar heat, that tingle in the pit of her stomach. _Oh Aslan, not now._  
She shakes herself, bites the inside of her cheek to bring her back to some sort of reality. She doesn’t know how long she has been frozen in her own memories. Susan is no longer sobbing, though her breathing, as heavy and painful as before, testifies to how little it would take to make the tears come again. Lucy can't bear to listen to that noise, the rasp of Susan's breath, for long. Crumpled on the ground, bathed in sunlight as bright as a summer’s day, Susan's eyes (unreadable even now) follow Lucy's progress towards her. She is expressionless, unblinking, her gaze steady, but in this light the dark rings around them are so much more clear. Lucy wonders when she last slept  
.  
It's the rarest thing, to see her sister completely unguarded, but she's seeing it now. She feels that a single _ungentle_ touch could break her into a thousand pieces. But she can't not touch her. Everything inside her is screaming that, more than anything, Susan needs to be held, and so hold her she does. Gently, yes, but firmly too, both protective and comforting. Susan jumps slightly as determined if hesitant arms circle her. It's not the most comfortable hug that Lucy has ever given; she's kneeling before her sister, bending down a little awkwardly so that she can hold her properly. Susan doesn't protest, merely letting her head fall to rest on Lucy's chest. Physically unable to look her sister in the eye (for which she’s frankly grateful), instead Lucy buries her head in Susan's hair.

When Susan starts to speak, her voice is so soft that Lucy has to strain to hear. The roar of blood in her ears, her own breathing, threaten to overwhelm it.

“I'm just tired, Lu. I'm tired of holding everything together on my own. And I'm tired of not knowing what to say to you, and of having to push you away just because we want the same thing.”

Lucy knows that she should respond. She’s still struggling for the right thing to say when Susan continues.

“I’d still like to know what you were thinking.” She lifts her head; her hair brushes softly past Lucy’s face. Lucy can’t think, let alone speak. Susan is finally looking her full in the eye now. “Really Lucy, I’m serious. What possessed you?” Susan sighs and shakes her head. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It’s far too late now, in any case. One day though, you really must explain to me what it was that was going through that ridiculous head of yours.”

Susan’s face mere inches from her own, Lucy struggles to order her thoughts sufficiently to proffer a response.

“I, ah …” is all she can seem to manage. And then, in chorus with the sinking in her stomach, “What do you mean, it’s far too late?”

“Oh Lucy. You really have no idea do you? Don’t you think at all?” Susan asks, exasperation apparent in every syllable. And then there are soft lips on Lucy’s own once more; Susan is speaking against her mouth, even as Lucy’s lips part beneath hers, whether in invitation or shock even Lucy couldn’t say for sure. “Lucy Pevensie, you really are the most ridiculous, annoying, _infuriating_ person I have ever known.”

It’s not a sisterly kiss. It’s so far from being a sisterly kiss that, in the few moments before she stops thinking at all, Lucy worries that constant doubt and desire have finally driven her mad. She manages to mouth one (pointless, idiotic) question against Susan’s lips, “What are you doing?” And then her mind stops and her body takes over.  
It’s nothing like that stolen kiss on her birthday, so many sleepless nights ago. Susan is soft, warm, entirely yielding yet demanding too. She drags her mouth from Lucy’s for the smallest moment to demand incredulously, “Oh Aslan, Lu, what does it look like I’m doing?” and then their lips crash together again. It’s a kiss that begins hard and demanding and then flows into something softer; it becomes gentle, hesitant even, as if Susan, suddenly beset with doubts, is seeking reassurance. She doesn’t have to seek for long. Lucy’s surprise is short-lived; she answers Susan’s questions, spoken and unspoken, with a gentle, bewildered eagerness. A whimper rises in her throat, unbidden, and even to her it sounds utterly broken. She pulls Susan closer, their lips graze together, softly but determined, mouths opening and closing, little licks and nibbles, awkward and unpractised but far from shy.

For all that she’s dreamed of this, Lucy realises that she has no idea at all what she should do. She wonders if Susan does either. And then she feels the tangle of fingers in her hair, the slight pressure as Susan pulls, gently urging her head backwards. Susan slides her lips from Lucy’s own as Lucy yields to the demand, down and over her chin, under it, and then, with only the briefest pause, she nuzzles into Lucy’s neck, kissing, licking, biting. It pushes Lucy entirely into the realm of the non-verbal. If she had thought that she was unable to form words before, this is something else entirely. She moans, sighs, whimpers (though less brokenly now, she thinks). The warmth in her belly is fast becoming unbearable. She presses her legs together, aware at the same time of the heat and prickle in her cheeks. She can’t possibly be blushing, can she?

Susan’s lips falter at a place a little above her collar bone.

“Don’t stop. Please, just keep doing that. Please?” Lucy is sure that she has never sounded more desperate.

In response, she feels a warm breath against her skin as Susan blows, slow and teasing, tracing towards the dip at the base of her throat, from where, ghostly soft, the memory of a kiss, she begins to nuzzle her way up the column of Lucy’s neck once more. Lucy is one ecstatic sigh. She smiles broadly when, finally, Susan’s eyes are at a level with her own again. Susan smiles back, hesitant still, in spite of all. The smile flickers like a candle flame across her lips, there and gone and back once more.

“Are you all right? Is this all right?” she asks.

Lucy can’t quite believe that she has to check. “Oh, Su. Of course this is all right. It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you to do that?”

“Um, not just since your birthday, then?” Susan says.

“Not just since my birthday.”

“Did you never worry what people would think? Or how I’d react?”

Lucy swears inwardly, presses her legs together even harder, trying to ignore the growing heat at the apex of her thighs.  
“Of course I worried. I’ve done nothing but worry for months. And I’d really like to stop worrying and just kiss you. So could we please stop talking?”

She tries hard not to sound petulant, though she’s certain that she fails badly. Susan doesn’t seem to mind. Her answering smile has none of her previous trepidation, no flicker of concern. It is broad, easy, welcoming. Finally, it is everything that Lucy has dreamed of. 

She smiles back, her heart pounding fit to burst.

Their mouths are so close, it’s almost too easy to bridge those last few inches. She feels like she should savour the moment, it’s been so long in coming. But she can’t.

There is nothing desperate about this kiss, nothing rushed, hard, or violent; yet nothing hesitant or doubtful either. It is slow and wondering, eager but languid too. Susan’s eyes had widened very slightly as Lucy’s lips travelled those few inches, but they were smiling, not troubled, and her lips had opened just as quickly, her tongue flickering, moistening them, with just moments to spare. And now, with all the discomfort of their position (it may be the warmest December she can remember, but the middle of a forest in winter is still hardly the perfect place, or time, for this) every move they make pulls them closer still. Lucy feels more than hears the whimpering that starts in Susan’s throat, echoing her own of, when? Moments before? Minutes? It washes away what few doubts remain.

Briefly, unwillingly, she extricates herself from Susan's embrace, takes up the blankets and lays them out, one atop the other. They shuffle on to them, a soft, comfortable bed in the wilderness, and ah yes, that's much better. No chill, no hard bumps or stones poking into knees and other places, just Susan: kneeling herself; smiling. Flushing slightly, but it's a flush that reaches down her neck to her chest, desire, not embarrassment. She doesn't flinch when Lucy puts her hands on her knees, spreading them, moving forward until she's kneeling between them. Then, her hands on Lucy's shoulders, Susan actually smirks.

"Now then, where were we?"

Lucy answers in the only way that feels appropriate. This time the kiss is so energetic that it overbalances them both. Susan topples backwards; it’s all she can do to whip her hands off Lucy’s shoulders to halt her imminent collapse.

"Hey, careful!" Susan says.

It doesn't discourage Lucy though, quite the reverse. She kisses Susan all the more enthusiastically, snaking her arms around her neck, pulling her in tightly. Susan pushes into her in her turn, parting her lips beneath Lucy's own, flickering her tongue. Lucy feels it: gentle, questioning, questing. She opens her own mouth a little, her tongue dancing and flitting around Susan's as they kiss. The softness of her mouth is like nothing Lucy has imagined, however much she's fantasised about kissing her (and she has no idea how many times she might have done that but it's _a lot_ ).

An image flashes into her mind. How they must look. The grove is a patchwork of brilliant sunshine and soft shadows, emerald green grass, the trees ringing them clothed in dun and white and a green just a vivid. Susan’s dress, rucked up and crumpled, reflects the emerald, intensifies it. Lucy feels dull by comparison. She falls back onto her heels, allowing Susan to loom above her in the most delicious way. Her head is back as far as she can force it.

A shiver of sheer wanting passes all through her. It becomes a shudder, she pushes up into it, up off her heels, up against Susan. And Susan topples backwards in the most undignified manner, giggling breathlessly against Lucy’s mouth, pulling her down with her.  Even if she cared to, Lucy couldn’t have kept her own balance. She barely manages to reposition her hands to stop herself from landing too heavily on Susan's belly. Even so, she hears her yelp slightly, though she can still detect that same breathless giggle at the edges of the sound.

"Hey, clumsy. That hurt!" Susan says, though there's no reproach in her voice.

"I'm sorry," says Lucy, far more serious than Susan sounds. And then (and she can't quite believe that she's saying it), "Would you like me to kiss it better?"

"Ah, I’d like you to just stay here and hug me. Do you mind?" And again, Susan sounds worried, doubtful.

"Of course I don't mind." She nuzzles into Susan's neck, clinging to her, so tightly, like she’ll slip away, vanish back into the woods - away, further and further away - if she once gives her the slightest chance to escape . "I really am sorry." She's apologising for so much, for far more than she could ever put into words.

"It's all right, dear, really it is. Now hush, and just hold me, will you?"

She does. Her nuzzles become nibbles, her tongue flickering at Susan's jawline, tracing upwards to that little dip behind her ear. She thinks she could listen to that slight hitch of breath, the almost silent gasp and ‘oh’ forever.

"By the lion, Lucy, are you actually trying to drive me mad?" Susan asks, breathless.

Stopping, with the most heroic of efforts, she pushes up a little until she is able to look Susan full in the eye. Her mouth is curving upwards again in that little smirk.  
Lucy thinks that her own smile probably looks just as smug.

"Of course not. I'm hurt that you could even think such a ..."

But she doesn't get the chance to finish. There are Susan's lips on her own again, near ravenous this time.

There's a warmth that infuses every part of her. It feels almost like the grove around responds to them, warming, becoming gentler, brighter. A soft breeze kisses her neck and there is nothing of the harshness of winter in it. In this place at least, for these few fleeting moments, it is spring once more. Lucy wonders if she's as flushed as Susan is. She's trying hard not to think about the heat in her belly but it's getting more and more difficult. And then Susan wriggles, _just so_ , and she's pushing her thigh against Lucy, and she stops trying not to think about it. She starts to roll her hips as she slides her lips from Susan's mouth to nuzzle at her neck again. The warmth grows, only intensified by the rasp of Susan's breath. The movement in Lucy's hips is reflected in Susan's own. It's not soft or gentle, not any of the things that Lucy imagined. It's a quick, animal grinding; harsh, needy, _greedy_.

It's starting to become incredibly frustrating. With every movement she makes Lucy is hoping for the soft, yielding touch of skin, and everywhere she feels nothing but clothing, enclosing, impeding. Everywhere that is, but for Susan's neck, stretched tight now as Lucy kisses and nuzzles and nips. Susan has thrown her head full back on the ground and her hands in Lucy's hair pull down firmly. She's sighing, over and over. There's a phrase niggling at the edges of Lucy's memory, something from that life that she can barely remember. Ah yes, that's it. Her sister sounds just like the cat who's got the cream. It won't be long before she starts to actually purr.

And still their legs twist around and around each other, seeking a pressure that is always just out of reach. In spite of the frustration of it all, they've become more languid now; there's still that thrust and roll of the hips that is far from innocent but it's almost lazy.  
Susan giggles but a moment later she's serious once more. Lucy can almost hear the frown in her voice.

"What are we going to do, Lu? What are we going to tell everyone?" She sighs. "There's nothing we can say that anyone will understand, is there?"

Lucy's own sigh is mostly muffled in Susan's neck, though her lips are no longer so busy as they had been. "I don't know. I really don't." She sighs again, as if she's trying to let go of all of their worries on a breath. "Do we have to tell anyone anything? Whose business is it? And really, what would we say?"

She can feel Susan growing tense as she speaks, her throat bobbing convulsively. The moment is slipping away, she can feel that too. She can't let it. Not now, not after she's waited so long. She pushes (unwillingly) away from the curve of Susan's neck till, at the fullest extent of her reach, she is able to look into her sister's eyes. And it's all there. All the fear and hope that Lucy has held inside for so long, reflected in the face beneath her.  
Susan's hair is dishevelled, her lips red and bruised. There is a mark on her throat that hadn't been there before, pink and bordered by the faintest indentations. Teeth marks. _Oh_.

"Can we worry later? Please?" Lucy whispers. She can feel the colour rising in her face again, a heat that might be mistaken for embarrassment in almost any other situation. "I really just want to kiss you. Can I do that please?"

Susan's reply is a small, tight smile. Lucy can't even begin to interpret what it means, and she's no more enlightened when Susan puts a finger to Lucy's lips, tracing them lightly.

"Act first, think later, then?" Susan asks. Accusingly? Reluctantly? Perhaps both, or neither.

Lucy laughs quietly. "Well, it's stood me in good stead for most of my life, hasn't it?"

Susan sounds rueful now. "That it has. Perhaps I should have spent more time doing and less time worrying. Do you think things would have been different if I had? Perhaps I should start now."

The words are barely out of her mouth and her whole demeanour changes; it's like a dark cloud moving from the face of the sun. And with the lifting cloud comes action. A quick tip and a roll and Lucy is thudding, entirely unexpectedly, onto the ground, part on and part off the blanket. She couldn't really say that she minds, especially when Susan immediately follows up on her advantage. Their positions are reversed in a matter of moments, Lucy flat on her back (giggling breathlessly, pleasantly flustered), Susan poised above her. Lucy couldn't move if she wanted to. She flexes her fingers; it's about all the freedom she has. Susan has her wrists pinned and, _Aslan_ , she would never have expected the effect that _that_ is having on her. Lucy wriggles, her eyes fixed on her sister's. Susan isn't smiling but at least she doesn't look like she'd rather be anywhere but here. Even when Susan releases her, fingers trailing across Lucy's chest to linger at the laces of her doublet, it doesn't cross Lucy's mind to struggle. She nods slowly, an answer to a question that Susan has yet to ask. Her breathing slows. She waits. Susan's fingers are quick and deft; laces slide, ease, and unknot. Piece by piece, doublet, hose ,and shirt, Lucy is _divested_. She makes no move that isn't directed; she feels like her mind is running to catch up. Each brush and caress sends jolts of sensation through her; every direction and silent order has her quivering.

When Lucy - flushed and breathing quick but deep - is down to her undergarments, Susan relents long enough to address her own clothed state. It is not a graceful disrobing, it's too quick and eager for that. In moments she's standing there, a thin green underdress the only thing protecting her from Lucy’s eager eyes, seemingly at a loss for what she should do next. Lucy answers that particular question mostly unthinkingly. Pulling the top blanket to one side briefly, she rolls under it. The pillow (and why had Susan even brought a pillow? Lucy decides that she must ask. _Later_ ) is already more or less in the right place. She throws the top blanket aside, smiling quick and nervous. 

"Well, don't just stand, silly. Come in, will you?" She's shocked at how hoarse her voice is. Her teeth are chattering. It can’t be the cold. 

** 

Bare minutes later, under-garments have joined the other little piles of clothing strewn on the grass and now there are simply smooth limbs amid warm blankets; curve of breast and hip; flesh to flesh and mouth to mouth. The cadences of Susan's utterances - gasp, moan, sigh, giggle, hiss, every sound and none - wash over Lucy, exciting and soothing all at once, drawn out of her by Lucy's hands and fingers, her lips and her tongue. 

And now it comes to this, a hitch of breath, slickness and heat. As her sister clings to her, breath coming in whimpering gasps, Lucy's fingers stroke, single-minded and exact. When the storm comes, it is overwhelming. Her sister's body, closer to her than she's ever been, is one long trembling wave; no part of her is still, her voice in Lucy's ear is a wordless, endless, keen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this part some time round the end of February last year. What with one thing and another, including a major confidence fail and an extensive rewrite, it took something like 8 months to write. I've been holding off on posting till the story was finally finished, so I don't leave it another year to post the next part. Part 9 and the epilogue are now finished and betad. Part 9 needed a bit of tinkering so it's just being re-betad, but it's all over bar the shouting.  
> So close.  
> There'll be final comments when I post the last bits, which hopefully won't be long now. Yay :D
> 
>  
> 
> Endless thanks, once again, to [likecharity](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/), for betaing, encouragement, and being a wonderful person and an amazing friend. Thank you! ♥♥♥
> 
>  
> 
>  **Dedication:** It seems a little wrong to dedicate this particular part to anyone in particular (what with the explicit sexytimes and all) so I'll dedicate it to all of you, and especially to all my friends: the ones I know in person and the ones I haven't had the pleasure of meeting IRL just yet. You're all wonderful, and I'm incredibly lucky to have you  <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is, finally, a happy ending.

Sleep takes her quickly.

In the darkness (and when did it become so dark?) she can hear the quietest of breaths, a gentle, rumbling purr. And now she feels it, soft lips at her temple, a warm breath; the smell of spring flowers, fresh hay, a sweet, dark musk. She wants to reach out, throw her arms around him, bury her face face in his neck, feel the power and vitality of him, the silkiness of a mane the colour of sunlight on a summer's morning. She wants to say how much she loves him, how blessed she feels to have found him.

She can't move, or speak. It doesn't matter. He knows all these things, and so much more.

She sleeps on; the warmth of his kiss feels like a blessing.

**

She groans and wriggles luxuriously, fighting full wakefulness. It's warm, even though that one thin blanket has mostly stopped being any sort of covering. It's a bundle now, she's hugging it so tightly, but it barely distracts from the hard, uneven ground. The blanket beneath her is damp against her skin. She's still naked. It's a wonder she hasn't frozen to death. Still, she's reluctant to move. She drifts comfortably, the warmth of the day more than rival to the leeching chill of the earth.

Groaning again, mostly for the satisfaction of hearing her own voice break the stillness, she rolls over onto her other side, pulling the tangle of blankets around herself more completely. It may be unseasonably warm but there is no time of year that it is particularly enjoyable to awaken, naked, with nothing for ceiling but sky and a dark canopy of branches. She stretches out a hand, questing. There's something missing. What? Who? Ah, of course. _Who_?

Opening her eyes, Lucy finds herself squinting against an entirely surprising brightness. The sun is high, much higher than she'd expected. How long has she slept?

A warm breeze kisses her face, awakening the memory of that other kiss, a little touch of love, acceptance, benediction even. And other kisses still, earthier (more _earthly_ ) yet no less miraculous. A sound other than her own breathing finally reaches her ears. Birds singing, such a sweet and joyous noise that Lucy cannot help smiling. Yet, despite the chirrups and chirps, the gentlest whistling and the most insistent _cark_ , there is a tranquility in this place, there probably always will be. Lucy can't imagine being sad or afraid, or even lonely, here.

Rolling onto her back she stretches so far that she feels her joints crack, and, finally acclimatised to the dazzle of sunlight, she begins to make out the outline of someone beside her. And there, there is the whickering she has been waiting for. Velvet lips nuzzle her face, a wet tongue. She sputters.

“Oof. Holly, stop that. I'm already awake, thank you.”

Holly whiffles back at her, her lips still so close to Lucy's face that she can feel the breath against her cheek. “Well I'm sure I'm very sorry,” says Holly, though she's laughing in that uniquely horsey way as she says it. “Susan asked me to be sure that you didn't sleep too long, but you looked so peaceful, I didn't have the heart to wake you.”

Shivering slightly, Lucy sits up to look properly around the glade and smiles. She can't help herself. She can't even be too bothered that Susan left her sleeping. With the memory of the previous day to sustain her she's fairly sure that nothing will bother her ever again.

Her clothes are neatly folded and piled beside her (and _of course_ they are. Trust Susan to do that). She dresses quickly, the shivering getting more intense.

“So, when _did_ she walk out on me?” she asks Holly over her shoulder as she struggles, chill-fingered, with the laces of her jerkin and hose.

“Well, I wouldn’t say she walked out on you,” Holly says, sounding a little uncomfortable. “Well, she didn’t.” Lucy’s raised eyebrows and decidedly doubtful expression have her flustered, it seems. “It’s just that she was very busy, and she was worried that everyone would be looking for you.”

“And she was in such a blazing hurry that she couldn’t spare the time to wake me?” Lucy knows that she’s being mean, putting Holly on the spot so, but however content she feels right now (happy even, and that’s not a word she’s been able to lay claim to in a long time) she can’t help but feel a little exasperated. She would have hoped Susan would _want_ to talk to her.

Her attention back on her lacings, from the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of ... _something_. Something that moves of its own volition, not driven by any wind (and there’s barely a breath of that today, this far into the forest). Some _one_ , not some _thing_. Turning her head just far enough to properly look, Lucy is unsurprised to see her: a face of silver-white peering from behind a fall of dark green hair, eyes wide, mouth a silent ‘oh’.

The dryad smiles shyly; Lucy returns it, warm and open, a hand raised in welcome and beckoning. She can’t recall if this dryad is one of the ones she saw all those months ago, but still, Lucy feels she should thank her, for _so_ much.  
Slight and lithe, the dryad cocks her head - quizzical, nervous, Lucy can’t tell which - and raises a finger to her lips. Well, that gesture is easy enough to grasp. Lucy smiles again, in what she hopes is an apologetic fashion, though she remembers far too vividly the last time she was here, what she witnessed. She’s a little concerned that her smile might be more of a leer.

Far above, a cloud like a white fleece passes across the sun. Its shadow keeps pace below, shifting, dappled, shot through with white and green. The birches dance to their own music. It’s a brief interlude, the sun returns in moments, as dazzling as before. Blinking in the glare once more, it takes Lucy a while to realise that the dryad is gone. She and Holly are alone.

**

They get a surprise on the journey back to Cair Paravel.

Picking through the forest, they are silent, companionable. Every so often, Holly pauses to nibble on a little moss or crop the lush, green grass that, in places, seems so intent on flouting the strictures of the season. Lucy, tummy rumbling, wishes she could partake. (She learned her lesson the first time Holly had proffered the invitation. The first blade had gone down sweet and easy, the mouthful after had left her spitting and sputtering, Holly – barely more than a foal – laughing that whinnying laugh. She had never tried the moss after that, though she has been frequently informed of how uncommonly good the moss around Cair Paravel tastes). She decides to hold out for a proper breakfast, though lunch would be more accurate. Why ever had Susan let her sleep?

Up, dressed, and on the move, the chill soon dissipates from Lucy's bones. Among the trees it is almost oppressively warm. It makes it all the more of a shock when, finally clear of the forest and in full, glorious gallop, the air around them turns white.  
Glowering, angry skies above, the air a pallid kaleidoscope, Lucy, suddenly shivering uncontrollably and close to blind, is uncertain what direction Cair Paravel is even in. She's completely certain that she wouldn't have the energy to get there. It's another thing that she has to be grateful to her friend for. Ears back, whinnying delightedly, it seems to Lucy that Holly has never enjoyed a gallop quite so much as she's enjoying this one. Lucy almost feels sorry – for Holly's sake, if not her own – that it comes to an end so quickly.

She leaves Holly munching contentedly in the stables, though not before hugging her fiercely, her arms barely circling her neck she's grown so much. The quickest route to shelter takes her past the walled garden to the Small Door of the Great Hall – head down, shoulders hunched, teeth chattering, she's so intent on getting out of this damnable cold that she has no eyes for her surroundings. She doesn't even spare a thought for the garden. She has happier, more recent, memories than that to hold on to.

The snowball takes her in the back of the head, more of a shock than anything. It's small and wet, positioned just perfectly to soak her collar and drip down the back of her neck before she can do a single thing about it. She's not at all surprised to see Derren, flushed and laughing, standing at the garden gate, making not the slightest attempt to defend himself.

Sputtering, swearing, yet invigorated (she's in a good mood; she has reason to be, after all) she crouches down to arm herself in kind. Derren stands firm.

“A very good day to you, Your Majesty,” he says, grinning broadly. “You look to have had a most enjoyable morning.”

He avoids Lucy's response (white, wet, and very cold) with ease. His playfully mocking, “You'll have to do better than ...” is brought short in a sputtering curse as, from either side, their origins hidden behind the garden wall, simultaneous snowballs strike him. Lucy winces in sympathy.

“Hey, not fair.” Derren has turned and is yelling back into the garden. “I wasn't ready.”

Rhiannon's voice (breathless, laughing) reaches her on the frigid air, “What does fair have to do with it, my lord? This is war. And I suspect Lucy would give you _that_ for fair.”

Derren has made a fatal error. Turning to face Rhiannon's voice, he has neglected to keep his attention on her partner in crime or, for that matter, his queen. Lucy doesn't waste her opportunity this time, her attack hitting him in the back of the head in perfect retaliation for her own indignity at the exact same moment that a second missile strikes his ear. Crouching down in defence, he does his best to wipe away the remains of the snow while he tries at the same time to shelter himself from further assault. He looks so pitiful, Lucy can't help feeling at least a little bad for the laughter that bubbles out of her. One arm thrown around his head, he raises the other in what Lucy can only imagine is a signal of submission.

“I surrender, all right? Three against one is really quite dishonourable, you know.” He quails further as he says it. Lucy can't see Rhee but she's clearly done something less than reassuring. “Lucy, allow me to escort you inside. My charming companions are far too boisterous for my liking.”

Apparently he's wilfully forgotten who first attacked whom.

Lucy shakes her head with a smile, “Oh Derren. Always underestimating you opponents. Come on, then. I'll shelter your retreat.”

“Your Majesty,” he says, a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step as he approaches her that belies his bedraggled state. “You are always and forever my hero.”

Derren takes her proffered arm with a flourish as the two twins finally allow themselves to be seen, side by side in the gateway of the garden where Derren had been moments before. Each looks as unruly as the other, flushed and breathless. They throw a playful salute.

“Lucy, dear. A very good morning to you,” Rhiannon says, sounding amused. “We were wondering where you were. Susan returned a while ago.”

From the prickling of her ears, the heat rising in her cheeks, Lucy knows she's gone bright red. She's thankful for the sudden snow now, though she's unsure that even that will save her for long. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. Everywhere she looks it seems that there are eyes looking back at her, curious, questioning, amused. She shivers in the most exaggerated fashion, pairing it with a loud 'brrrr'.

“I'm sorry,” she says and hugs herself with the arm that isn't in Derren's possession. “I'd stop and talk but it's just so cold. I really should know better than to go riding so completely unprepared at this time of year.”

Derren snorts. He is wearing little more than Lucy and looking none the worse for it. He's positively aglow.

“Well then, allow me to escort you inside. We wouldn't want our beloved queen to catch a chill,” he says. For all the lightness of his words Lucy can't help but worry. Since her birthday she's found it near impossible not to pick apart his every utterance for some hidden meaning. Still, she allows him to drag her towards the Small Door.

The twins return her parting wave. Rhiannon's smile is broad, all teeth; Harry's is more reserved but just as warm. And as Harry waves with her right hand, her left, snowball and all, is moving out of sight behind Rhee's back. Rhiannon's outraged yelp comes mere moments before Harry turns tail, retreating with all haste into the garden.

“You utter cow.” Rhee's voice is at a pitch just short of painful. “Oh yes, run if you like, I'm going to get you for that.” She bends quickly to scoop up the means of her revenge. “It's no good, you know. There's no escape.”

Lucy makes her own retreat into the relative warmth of the castle. She wants no part in this particular war.

**

In a week it will be Christmas. Lucy barely has the luxury to worry that Susan is never, ever quite where she looks for her, or if she is, that there is always somewhere else she must be, something else she just has to be doing, organising, overseeing; taking her leave, sometimes with a tight, fierce hug, more often with only a rueful shrug and a smile. Beyond pleasantries, they don't talk. There are always far too many people around for Lucy to be able to say any of the things that she'd like to anyway.

( _And still she can feel the softness and warmth of her, the silk of her hair. Asleep or awake, eyes open or closed, all of Lucy's senses vibrate with her, the memory and the fact of her._ )

So slow to come, winter is finally here with a vengeance. A full week of snow storms, winds that cut to the bone, skies the colour of lead. Day after day, the sun struggles to break through the clouds, if not to shed any sort of warmth, at least to illuminate the day past the point of perpetual twilight. 

**

And the life of the castle rolls on, as oblivious to her joy as it ever was to her sadness. That, at least, is something to be grateful for.

**

She's always, always loved Christmas Eve. All the anticipation, all those possibilities. And her family too, by blood and circumstance. She has so much to be thankful for.  
Sometimes she just forgets, that's all.

She weaves her way back to her rooms at some point close to midnight, singing quietly to herself, just a little too much hot, spiced wine inside her, to chase away the cold. Not so much that she'll be unfit for tomorrow's festivities, she hopes, but really, she much prefers the simple songs and conviviality of this night to all the hustle and bustle of the big day.

More than ready to fall into bed, Lucy almost misses the note on her pillow. A scrap of parchment with a single sentence in an elegant hand that, even in her current state, she recognises immediately. Whatever could Shatterstaff be wanting at this time of night?  
The temptation to ignore it and just sleep is almost irresistible yet resist it she does, finally. She feels that, as far as her dealings with Shatterstaff are concerned, the past year has been one brattish display after another. The fact that he's still willing to talk to her at all is a wonder, and yet another thing to be grateful for.

**

 _Oh, good grief._ He couldn't have chosen somewhere indoors for a midnight assignation? _Honestly_.  
Not for the first time in her life, Lucy has reason to curse a centaur's lack of facility with stairs. At least it hasn't snowed for a few days, and the walled garden offers some shelter from the bitter wind (besides stirring up memories that bring a warm flush to her skin) but even so her warmest clothing barely lessens the shivering.

Shatterstaff isn't alone. Even in the light of the half moon she can easily recognise Merrymeet, only a sliver shorter than her mate but somehow so much more graceful. Lucy raises a hand, forces some of the seasonal cheer into her voice that the chill has chased away.

“Well met and Merry Christmas to you.” The bells have yet to greet the new day, but still.

The two centaurs raise their hands in silent welcome.

“Merry Christmas, Lucy.” She almost jumps out of her skin. Susan, there in Merrymeet's shadow. She steps towards Lucy, pulls her into a tight hug, kisses her awkwardly on the cheek, all before Lucy's heart stops pounding. She barely composes herself sufficiently to return the embrace, fierce and equally tight, before Susan breaks away and steps back to stand beside Merrymeet once more.

Shatterstaff coughs, that studied, entirely artificial clearing of the throat with which Lucy is so very familiar. Ah. Clearly some sort of lesson is about to be imparted. Lucy smiles to herself. Some things never change.

Before Shatterstaff can speak, however, Merrymeet jumps in.

“Your Majesties,” she says, an entirely undeferential giggle in her voice.”We apologise most sincerely for dragging you out into such a bitter night but we thought you might like to see this, and you won’t get the chance again. Perhaps it can be our Christmas gift to you both.” She sounds more than a little tipsy.

Lucy listens as she continues, the words falling from her lips, a tinkling river of erudition, and it is all Shatterstaff can do to intersperse his own commentary into that of this mate. Lucy thinks they’re having so much fun in their intellectual sparring that whether or not their intended audience has become entirely overwhelmed by the flood of their words is something of secondary concern.

“And there.” Shatterstaff’s arm sweeps up, taking in the whole of the night sky at first. The darkness seems almost soft to Lucy, rich, welcoming sable brushed with flecks of white, stains of the faintest silvering just visible from the corner of her eye. For the briefest moment a flicker of another sky overlays her vision: paler, somehow less comforting, more dangerous. It passes quickly.The sweep of Shatterstaff’s arm becomes quickly less extravagant, drawing Lucy’s vision downwards just a little, and .. there. “As you see, our most beloved constellation, the Lion, brightest on this one night of the year. And if you will look just a little to the side of the Lion’s head, I believe you will see, in just a few moments …”

As she looks she can almost see _her_ Aslan amongst the stars, all softness and strength and sinuous grace. A brightness, a flare of flame where there had been darkness. Not a pin-prick of starlight but an off-oval, golden smudge. To Lucy’s delight, it is almost as if the Lion is winking at her.

“The Great Comet,” Merrymeet says. “Sometimes called the Lion’s Eye. But that’s not the best of it. Look.” Lucy has paid close enough attention to her astronomy lessons to know that the evanescent threads of fire, appearing and vanishing again almost before she can register their existence, are much closer to them than the constellation from whose lips they appear to emanate, and yet. “The Lion’s Breath,” Shatterstaff and Merrymeet say in unison, Shatterstaff grave, Merrymeet, her voice full of joy, trailing off into a sigh.

They stand and watch, silent now. Lucy makes no attempt to count them, it would be impossible. Achingly brief, slashes in the covering of night, she does not question the name for a moment. Aslan’s Beath and Aslan’s Eye. She can almost hear the low rumble of his voice, see the gentleness in his gaze. For a few brief moments she forgets even to be aware of her sister, bare feet away, yet she doesn’t flinch when Susan takes her hand and, when she squeezes for one brief moment, Lucy squeezes back.

“Merry Christmas, Sue,” she says.

**

The noise, the heat, the spectacle, they're very nearly overwhelming.

The ball has been at full tilt for – well, honestly, Lucy isn't entirely certain how long. Long enough for her imbibe far more of her beloved spiced wine than is sensible, certainly. Her head is just a little aspin, and not only as a result of her current, highly unusual (for her) inability to remove herself from the floor. The offers have been coming thick and fast all night. She's certain she is still able to demure as graciously as anyone, she just doesn't have the heart, not tonight. Besides, if anyone were to press her on it, she'd be forced to admit that she's hardly having the least enjoyable night she's ever had. (There is another reason, from which she's doing her very best to distract herself. A niggling worry that she's trying very hard not to think about.)

Christmas has ever been the least formal of festivals, and it is Lucy's favourite because of it. This year, though, this year, it feels lighter, brighter, more care free, than she can ever remember. It can't just be her own good mood. Can it?  
Perhaps it's just the relief of having everyone home, after so many weeks of doubting, hoping against hope. The Lion knows, they'd cut it close enough. When the delegation to Underland had returned with less than a week to Christmas, it had seemed too good to be true. They hadn't dared hoped for more. Edmund's return had seemed a miracle (though Peter had chided him with some vigour on his rash decision to make the journey from Anvard in the depths of winter. Edmund had laughed that off easily enough, reminding his brother that his little entourage of dwarfs and fauns were well able to cope with a “little bit of snow”).  
Lucy can't help be sad that Lune had felt it necessary to remain in his castle, though she can hardly begrudge him that. He had been absent for long enough. And anyway, he had absolutely _insisted_ on her presence at Corin's birthday celebration and that isn't _too_ many months away.

Derren spins her almost without warning, forcing her to actually pay attention to what she’s doing, for the moment at least. For all that he can be the most infuriating person imaginable, he is certainly a charming and entertaining dancing partner, and accomplished enough to save her poor toes too, which is certainly nothing to be sniffed at. She'd already had more than enough reason to curse her flimsy slippers. Rhee had been annoyingly insistent that riding boots wouldn't go with this dress.  
She twirls back into the compass of his arms, giggling breathlessly. Derren grins. For a moment his eyes flicker away from hers, over her shoulder. The grin is joined by an entirely too expressive roll of his eyes.

“I really don’t know what’s wrong with everyone.” His mouth not far from her ear, still he has to shout to be heard. “Everywhere I look, people seem intent on falling in _love_.” The way he says it, it’s like he has a bad taste in his mouth that not even the wine can banish.

“Oh Derren, they’re not doing it just to annoy you, you know.” She kisses him quickly on the cheek, butts her own cheek softly against him. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

He snorts. “Of course I’m not jealous. I’m happy. Of course I’m happy. It _is_ the season of love and happiness and good will to all creatures, after all. And the Lion knows, some people have been waiting longer than others”.

It’s Lucy’s turn to snort now. As Derren spins her again, it is impossible not to see his point. Rhee flitters across her field of vision, arm in arm with Edmund. She’s been looking quite indecently pleased with herself all night and has appeared decidedly reluctant to accept any other partners. Edmund has the grace to look a little embarrassed at the breach of etiquette. Rhiannon, on the other hand, clearly couldn’t give two hoots.  
At least they’re present though. Harry and Rhyddion have been noticeable by their absence for most of the evening. It’s proving to be quite the scandal.

Even as she tries to discreetly crane her neck to keep Rhiannon and Edmund in view, she feels Derren stiffen slightly, become just that little less responsive. She sighs, waiting for the inevitable. She doesn’t wait long.  
“Well, I think I’ve commanded far more of your attention than is fair this evening. And dear old Tumnus has been waiting to dance with you all night. It’s unfair of me to make him wait any longer.”

She turns to face him, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline.  
“Really, Derren?” she says with a snort. “You’re sure you don’t just want a chance to woo that pretty little Terebinthian? What’s her name again?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” As Lucy watches, his eyes, previously fixed on the woman in question (currently unescorted, as luck would have it) slide casually away from her. “Though she does look rather lonely, don’t you think?”

“Have a care, my dear,” Lucy says lightly. “Her brother, I am told, is both protective and ill-humoured. I’d hate for you to be, ah, _inconvenienced_.”  
The Terebinthian Delegate (thoroughly full of himself, though known to be charming enough when the mood strikes him, and when his sister’s virtue is not threatened) is mere feet away, glowering, lips pursed. Lucy feels fleeting sympathy for his dance partner.

Derren doesn’t answer, merely lifts his arm, flicks his wrist. Having no particular urge to be stubborn, she complies, spinning, laughing delightedly, into Tumnus’s outstretched arms, stumbling only a little.

Tumnus's touch is delicate yet sure, steadying her.  
“Perhaps a few moments to catch your breath, my dear,” Tumnus says, concern overriding conviviality. She can barely hear him, but nods, grateful. It's all become just a little too much, of a sudden. Perhaps it's the wine.

Her hand on his arms, Lucy allows herself to be threaded through the press. There, on her left hand, is Gruffle, looking happier and more proud than she's ever seen him. His impending fatherhood, so recently announced, clearly agrees with him. Lucy wonders where his good lady is. Daff does so love Christmas, and the little one isn't due for months yet.  
Ah, there, in Thornfoot's shadow, laughing hard at some joke or other. The prospect of motherhood is just as agreeable, apparently. She's positively glowing.

Tumnus deposits her on the edge of the surging mass of bodies, turning solicitous eyes on her. She ushers him on his way with gracious thanks, her heart overbrimming with love as she watches as his retreating form is quickly engulfed. Suddenly free of less immediate distractions, she returns to the one thing that’s almost constantly on her mind. She does it almost unconsciously, casting around for the long black hair, the familiar green dress, but her sister remains elusive, has been all day. It doesn’t seem possible, she must be here somewhere, and yet.

At rest now, only her eyes in motion, darting from face to face, seeking the only face that just doesn’t want to be found, the spinning becomes intense. Out of nowhere a wave of nausea hits; swaying disturbingly, it is all she can do to stay on her feet. It is simply too much, she wishes she could just step out of her dress, escape the press, the noise, the smell of food, perfume, musk. It chases all other thoughts before it and that, in itself, is a miracle.

**

The minstrel’s gallery, not much more than a box on one side of, and overlooking, the Great Hall, isn’t much cooler than the hall itself. Lucy finds it empty though, as she knew she would - Cair Paravel’s musicians much prefer to be down amongst their audience, and as close to the refreshments as possible. There’s a thin curtain that blocks at least some of the light. It’s something, at least, some escape from the sheer sensory assault. The chair she lowers herself into is hardly comfortable but, with the relief it gives her protesting feet, she doesn't care. She slumps a little to one side, rests a shoulder, her left, on the wall beside her, her temple following gently. The stone is cool. She sighs.

Thinking back, in the months and years to come, she will laughingly wonder why she should ever have been surprised when the knock comes, the door swinging to, near silent on its hinges, mere moments later. It seems they always meet this way, or in some way much like it. Coming unawares, following unasked; silent places, secret places, private yet so very much not. Still, she jumps near out of her skin, curses more loudly than she means to, when Susan speaks, even if it is only a tentative, “Hello?”

Her pounding heart doing little to help her still spinning head, Lucy does her best to compose herself. She keeps her eyes closed.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” She hates that it’s so harsh, so accusing, but she’s sure of it, as sure as she can be of anything.

Susan doesn’t answer for a few moments. Lucy hears her take a few steps into the gallery, shutting the door behind her. Even when she does respond, she’s hesitant, stumbling.

“I … Not avoiding you. We’ve seen each other lots.” If she’d deliberately meant to confirm Lucy’s suspicions she couldn’t have been more clear.

“Oh, of course. We’ve seen each other every day for the past week.” Lucy’s annoyance is bubbling away nicely now. “In Council, at meals, all the other places. You know, the places where you never actually have to talk to me. Where there’s no risk of ever actually being alone together. Because that would be just terrible, wouldn’t it?”  
She doesn’t sound angry, not to her own ears, just petulant, and tired. It’s the drink, she tells herself, it must be.

“Well, we’re alone now,” Susan says, her voice gentle, conciliatory. Lucy, eyes still closed, can only imagine her expression. “What would you like to talk about?”

And now she does open her eyes; stands, too quick, a little shaky, and turns a disbelieving scowl on her sister. Susan looks back calmly. Lucy wants to say so much, ask so many questions. She hasn’t the first idea where to begin. She returns Susan’s calm, questioning gaze with a glare, her eyes stinging with furious tears.

Moments lengthen. The roll and crash from the hall below does nothing to make the wordlessness, the silent reproach, less painful, less bitter. (Or perhaps it’s all in Lucy’s head. Perhaps her sister doesn’t care at all.) It seems like forever but Susan’s gaze falls first. To the stones at their feet, the chairs, her hands. She’s playing with her fingers. Her eyes stop there.

“Do you think I didn’t want to talk to you? Of course I did. But how could I when I didn’t even know what I thought? Think. And I could hardly talk about it to anyone else, now could I? Can you imagine it? ‘Oh, I think my sister’s in love with me. And I feel the same way.’ ‘Well of course you love each other’”. (Lucy can’t help but smile. Susan’s impression of Shatterstaff has always been pitch-perfect, if just a little cruel.) “‘Not _love_ , _in_ love. Romantic love. Kissing love.’ ‘Oh, ah, well, yes. Um.’” She snorts, an angry, bitter sound. “There’s no one I could talk to. No one.”

All of the reproach, all of the bitterness, has drained from her voice when she next speaks. Now she just sounds sad. “It’s wrong, Lu. You see that, don’t you?”

Lucy doesn’t answer, at least not that particular question. She barely hears it. “You love me.” She’s not sure if she means it as a question or a statement. Both. Neither. It doesn't matter.

“Could you listen to me for once?” Susan sounds tired. “It’s wrong.”

“Why is it wrong?” Lucy’s voice in her own ears sounds tiny.

And now it is Susan’s turn to glare. It’s a poor effort; it really doesn’t seem like her heart is in it. She shakes her head slowly, her shoulders slumping. She doesn’t answer.

“No, really, tell me,” Lucy says. She wills herself not to cry. If she starts she knows she won't be able to stop.

They’re a few feet apart, no more. A handful of steps. Susan covers the distance in one, two, three strides, arms spreading wide, and catches Lucy in a fierce hug. The kiss, when it comes, is the slightest whisper of sensation against Lucy’s lips, a firmer, more lingering touch to her forehead. Susan pulls her closer, her hand in Lucy’s hair pressing her gently into the curve of her neck. Lucy can’t restrain a contented sigh.

“You ridiculous, infuriating girl,” Susan says, but there’s no bite to her words. “You really don’t have any idea, do you? Well, I hope you’re happy.” Susan’s own sigh is barely audible but Lucy can feel it through her whole body. They’re clinging so tightly to one another now that neither one could easily untangle herself.

“Of course I’m happy. I have you.” Moving her face from the hollow of Susan’s throat, she deliberately brushes her lips in a line across her cheek towards the curve of her lips. And now they are face to face, Lucy craning backwards just a little so she can look Susan in the eyes and still hug her with all her strength. Susan is soft and warm against her, her smile open, her eyes clear. She is only a little taller than Lucy now. Lucy hadn’t realised, wonders when it happened.

“You’re staring,” Susan whispers, reddening just a little though her smile, slow and luminous, suggests that she doesn’t really mind. Lucy grins back. It feels like her heart will burst.

Lucy dips forward to kiss her. And now, for what seems like the first time, Susan submits without demure. It's not a graceful kiss. Noses bump, teeth clash. Lucy has, frankly, very little idea of what to do with her tongue, and no more does Susan. They're clumsy, slightly drunken, giggling, idiotic. It's perfect.

Susan, pulling away, hiccoughs suddenly. Lucy giggles breathlessly, pauses for a few moments to give her sister a chance to collect herself before dipping towards her once more. And now Susan allows her the quickest peck before turning her head slightly to present a soft, smooth cheek to Lucy’s lips.

“Can you just hold me for a while? Isn't that enough?”

Lucy hasn’t felt so … so _light_ in, well, forever. She holds on tight, kisses the proffered cheek gently.

It’s enough. For now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Epilogue  
** Saturday 31st August 1963  
London 

_For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._  
Matthew 6:21

She awakes, heart pounding, fear and shock clawing at her gut.  
She doesn't cry out. Lying paralysed for long moments, she fights to control herself, takes long slow breaths. Sunlight is forcing its way through the gaps in the curtains. It is going to be another warm day. It's been a perfect summer, and it seems that today will be equally perfect.

Composure returns slowly. She can still taste the ghost of blood and smoke in her throat, hear the screams fighting through from her sleeping mind. The nightmares are less and less frequent but they're no less awful when they do come. She wonders how much worse they would be if every person on that train hadn't walked away from it. Not unscathed, perhaps, but - a few cuts, bruises, a broken arm for one poor unfortunate, it could have been so much worse. Lucy herself had escaped with a split lip and a badly bitten tongue. She had found it difficult to talk properly for days after.

She reaches out tentatively, breathes more easily finally as she lets herself stroke Susan's hair. She has always found it calming and Susan never stops her, says she likes it. The steady rhythm of of her sleeping breath is almost as soothing.

Contentment washes over Lucy, washing away the after-effects of her nightmare. Slipping as carefully and quickly as she can from under the covers, she picks her way to the door, trying at the very least not to walk all over her entire wardrobe. (Susan's side of the bed is immaculate. Lucy always complains that she has the advantage. They hardly ever use Susan's room. If they're honest – which they can never, _ever_ , be – it's only for show. Lucy is sometimes rather offended that the perfectly arranged wardrobes, the spotless carpet, the always made bed, don't strike anyone as suspicious, especially beside the cheerful catastrophe that is Lucy's room). Her hand on the door-knob, Lucy freezes as Susan murmurs to herself, turning fitfully in her sleep. Lucy stays there, stock-still, longer than entirely necessary, but finally eases the door open, wincing at the resounding click as she does so. She blinks rapidly in the sudden sunlight, the curtains of the one big window in the corridor before her standing wide open. The sky is blue, the dawn chorus energetic. Yes, it's going to be a fine day.

**

The kitchen floor is cold against her bare feet, unaware as yet of the incipient glory of the coming day. Striking a match, she lights the gas under the big old kettle. It always did take a good deal longer than she'd like to boil, but soon enough she's picking her way back up the stairs, tea-tray in hand. The curtains in the upper parlour stand open also, the light rich and warm. It's a room of soft woodland colours, of pale greens, browns, and golds. Everything here is a reminder of their former home: colours, pictures, books, furniture, everything.  
Lucy smiles sadly to herself, nostalgia threatening for a moment to overwhelm her contentment, but only for a moment. The radio on the sideboard – heavy black Bakelite – jumps into life at the turn the beige knob, the clipped tones of the Light Programme's morning announcer, mid-introduction, breaking the quiet. She turns down the volume just a little and makes her way, cup and saucer in hand, to the window.

For long minutes, she stands and she looks. Hampstead Heath is a brilliant green in the early morning sunshine, the sky is of a blue so clear, so flawless, it makes her heart sing to look at it. The rise and fall of the heath merges into the blue of the sky, emerald with sapphire, such colours as she rarely sees these days except in dreams, both sleeping and waking. London is harder than Narnia, louder, grimier, both more real and less, and yet she loves it too, in her own way. The pain of exile has faded, though it has been hard. 

A lorry trundles along Spaniards Road, below, slowing to a halt at the old Spaniards Inn. Lucy watches as two men alight from the vehicle; they’re joined in moments by the landlord (a smiling, earthy man in late middle-age. He had taken a shine to Lucy and Susan from their first meeting, 10 years ago ( _more?_ ), and is always ready with a friendly word and a grin). The landlord’s boy follows after. Even from this distance he doesn’t seem at all pleased to be awake. 

There is a soft click from behind her, only audible now because the song on the radio has come to an end. In the slightest moment of silence before the announcer introduces the next song, she hears the pad of bare feet. She jumps only slightly as arms encircle her; Susan’s hands, fingers entwined, rest gently on Lucy’s belly, her chin on Lucy’s shoulder, cheek warm and soft against her ear.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy says, relaxing into Susan’s embrace. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s all right.” Susan’s voice in her ear is soft, muzzy-sounding. “Come back to bed. It’s Saturday. I want to cuddle.” Her tone is playful, with the slightest hint of something more mischievous.

With each passing minute, the sunlight intensifies; the green of the heath, the blue of the sky, and there, for the first time, a slight wisp of snowy white cloud - everything is pristine, brand new, perfect. At their backs, a raucous burst of guitar and drums and distinctly unmelodic voices.  
 _“She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.”_

Lucy can’t help but smile.

“Do you?” she asks.

“Do I what?”

“Love me?”

Susan’s voice is as soft as before, but not at all playful now, infused with a warmth that Lucy can never mistake. “Silly. You know I do. Always. Now come back to bed. I’m freezing out here.”

A red double decker bus moves silently along Spaniards Road. On the horizon, there might just be the slightest tinge of a black cloud. Perhaps it will rain later, but not for a while. For now, the day could not be more perfect. Lucy hugs herself, tightening Susan’s arms around her, tilts her head to rest against her sister’s cheek, and smiles happily.  
Perhaps they’ll return to Narnia. She hopes so, one day. Still, England is beautiful in her own way, and it feels so very good to be alive. 

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently found a document on my laptop entitled 'Untitled Narnia' dating from May 22 2010 that contained the first few paragraphs of this. Which is to say, from first words to final full stop, this story has taken me almost four years to write. It's the longest thing I've ever written and, while I can't really say that there was ever any doubt that I'd finish, I really didn't expect it to take this long. Regardless of how many people read it, I have to admit to being pretty proud of myself right now.  
> A lot happens in 4 years, and this particular 4 years has seen all sorts of ups and downs. This ridiculous little story has never been far from my mind, one way or another, however much I've failed at speedy or consistent writing. I'll miss it, but hey, now there's time for the next thing, so that's nice.
> 
> While this is written from Lucy's point of view, and while I've grown to love her more than I ever thought possible, I wrote it, in a very real sense, for Susan. I've never come to terms with Lewis's treatment of her, and this is my response. To say that Lewis wouldn't have approved is something of an understatement, but isn't that one of the joys of fan-fiction? 
> 
> As always, I want to thank [likecharity](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/), for her betaing and general wonderfulness. Thank you! ♥♥♥
> 
>  
> 
>  **Dedication:** And finally, this is for all the people I've ever met online, in one fandom or another, or just on the wild and woolly highways and byways of the internet. This is for the love, the friends and the friendships, however lasting or fleeting. This is for [zagury](http://zagury.livejournal.com/), my first fandom friend who, I'm happy to say, I'm still in touch with, and [smeetie](http://smeetie.livejournal.com/), with whom I was so close for a short time at the end of 2009 and whom I still remember with fondness and sadness, 4 years after she vanished from the internet. And this is for [perverbially](http://perverbially.livejournal.com/), whom I miss more than I can say, and [sushizuzoru](http://sushizuzoru.livejournal.com/) too, and [jules2112](http://jules2112.livejournal.com/), despite the fact that we appear to have fallen out over a ridiculous political disagreement. And this is for Shan, and Sivi, and Morgan, and Graham, and Jack, and Anna, and Flis, and Helen, and all the guys from the heady, if slightly stressful days, of Skins. And for [lash_larue](http://lash_larue.livejournal.com/) and [lokifan](http://lokifan.livejournal.com/) too, and all you others I met through Harry Potter :)  
>  And this is for Jules, and Kati, and Hannii, and most especially, Briella <3
> 
> And yes, I'm going a bit over the top, but did I mention 4 years? I hope it's not that surprising that I'm a little bit emotional XD
> 
> Anyway, rambling over. If you're reading this on LJ, feel free to check out the last chapter, and if you're reading on AO3, it's possible that you've already read it. I hope you enjoyed. <3


	11. Various Interludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a few little scenes, from various POVs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These originally formed a bridge in part 9 between Lucy's return from the forest and her meeting with Susan and the centaurs on Christmas eve. They were intended as a revisiting of some of the other characters I'd grown fond of but in the end they completely unbalanced the chapter so I had to remove them. I still kind of like them though and didn't want to delete them entirely so I'm posting them as a kind of appendix.

**Interludes**

_There is a certain cave to the north of Cair Paravel. On a day such as this, its approach is hard and dangerous, not by any means for the faint of heart. A careless person may be tempted to take too much note of the bleak beauty of the Great Eastern Ocean, the way the sun is struggling so gamely to chase away the glowering darkness of snow-laden clouds._

_There is no snow on the air this morning; still, yesterday's fall has done its worst. The figure who emerges, blinking owlishly, a hand raised to shield eyes that are dazzled even by the wan light of a December morning, would be unrecognisable even to his own siblings. Bundled and wrapped, a hat of fur and thick mittens, knee high boots (fur-lined), his features are muffled so that only those watering eyes are visible. There is no one, human or beast, to watch him emerge though, and he is thankful that he does not have to make his entry in to this frozen, deserted landscape alone._

_“Hurry up, you lot,” Peter calls, in good spirits if a little tired. “We have a hard day ahead of us if we are to have any chance of a warm bed tonight.”_

_He waits, only slightly impatient, as first Tumnus then Rhyddion steps from the shadows of the cave onto the precarious track. Sounds of clinking, whuffling, coughing, and muttering on Rhyddion's heels tell Peter all he needs to know. The rest of his retinue are there, just waiting to make that frankly terrifying traverse from hill-top to solid, safe ground. Once they reach the shelter and relative safety of the tree-line he'll be much easier in his heart._

_If anything, Rhyddion is muffled even more heavily than Perter, yet still he shivers, rubbing gloved hands together vigorously._

_“Well, much as it is good to see the sun again, Underland is certainly a little more comfortable than this damnable weather. Tell me, my prince, have you never thought that it would be pleasant to over-winter in more temperate climes? I have heard that southern Archenland is lovely at this time of year.”_

_“Indeed, my Lord Rhyddion,” Mr Tumnus says, blowing on his fingers delicately. “There is certainly a most refreshing bite to the air. But a hard day's travel will no doubt warm us up a treat.” He pulls his scarf just a little tighter around his neck. He is otherwise entirely naked. Just looking at him makes Peter shiver all the more._

_“Well, the quicker we get on, the quicker we can get warm. Slow and careful now, if you please.”_

_A serpent of colour and cheer, beast and human, furred and clothed and naked, Peter and his entourage wend and wind their way, down, and again down. More than anything else, Peter wants a good hot cup of really strong tea. They don't have tea in Underland._

 

**

 

_It's been a challenging mission, though not, perhaps, for the usual reasons. The people of Underland are – have always been – peaceable and courteous to a fault. No, the challenges have lain rather closer to home on this particular venture. Rhyddion can't understand it. Peter is still young, of course, yet he's rarely anything other than the consummate statesman. These last few weeks, however, he has been irritable, distracted, churlish even. Rhyddion doesn't wonder why. He's not sure he has to._

_He pulls off his boots with a sigh. It's good to be home._

_It's late, but there's one more thing that he has to do. A change of clothing (such a relief to be free of those furs) and just a little bit of luck, and …_

_As so often, the Small Hall is near deserted. A fire dances in the great stone fireplace, reflected and intensified in the hair of the two women sitting almost on top of it. Bent over a chess board, he can't see their faces. With hair like that he doesn't need to. He approaches quietly, with just a cough to alert them of his presence. It is enough._

_“Rhyddion!” Harry says (well, squeals would be a better description, he thinks). She is up and at him in a moment (the chess pieces scattered everywhere, mostly in the lap of her rather startled looking sister). And then she is in his arms, her head nuzzled into his neck, his face in her hair, soft and fragrant._

_“I've missed you, you idiot,” she says, her lips moving against his neck, her voice hardly audible. “If you ever leave without saying goodbye again, I'll give you such a hiding.”_

_He tightens his arms around her, all silent contrition. From the only corner of his eye that isn't obscured by red curls he can see that Rhee has completely given up on trying to sort out the chess pieces and is looking on, an indulgent smile on her lips. Clearly aware that she has at least a part of his attention, her smile broadens into a grin._

_“I was losing anyway,” she says quietly._

_Harry ignores her._

 

**

 

_Gruffle sidesteps the snowball with ease, a smile on his too-often serious face._

_“Really, old friend,” he says with a laugh. “You don’t have to prove to me that badgers can’t throw. It’s common knowledge, you know.”_

_Thornfoot takes the jibe good spiritedly, laughing his low, whuffling laugh. “That’s as may be, but there are some dwarfs around here who don’t know when they’re well off.” And snarling (playfully, though only someone close to him would know that for sure) he is on top of Gruffle before he has a moment to react. Another moment and both creatures are barely recognisable, rolling back and forth in the crisp white blanket, cursing and hollering. Half a minute more, perhaps, and they break apart, coming to rest in the snow, guffawing, uproarious, between gasps for air._

_“Daff is pregnant,” Gruffle says, so sudden, apropos of exactly nothing, that Thornfoot is caught completely off guard. His breath catches in his throat, becomes a cough, stays that way for seconds that, all the same, seem endless. It is a while before he can respond in any coherent way._

_“Well, it’s about time.” His voice is brusque but his eyes are shining. “I was beginning to think you were neglecting your duties.”_

_Gruffle’s responding snort is visible in the cold air._

_They say nothing more, lying side by side, apparently entirely oblivious to the elements. (Dwarfs and badgers are hardy folk, after all. It is a matter of pride). Thornfoot reaches out, squeezes his friend’s shoulder hard. Gruffle’s smile puts the winter sun to shame._

 

**

 

_Derren is, at least, a less challenging opponent than her sister. Rhiannon smiles wickedly as she manoeuvers him one move closer to an ignominious defeat. Derren cares not one jot, it would seem. His mind is on other things._

_“Should you really be telling me this?” Rhiannon is struggling to keep up._

_“Oh, it’s all right,” Derren says with a chuckle. “Lucy only did it because she didn’t want to deal with all the pomp and ridiculousness. The birthday ball was never her idea anyway. She just wanted it over with as little fuss as possible.”_

_Derren’s expression is sunny enough, but a shadow passes across it, a cloud across a summer sky, plain to see._

_“I was hoping to at least get a kiss. She just vanished the whole night, and she’s barely spoken to me since.”_

_It is all Rhee can do not to roll her eyes extravagantly at him. For such a bright lad he does seem to be remarkably dense at times. She schools her own expression, locking her exasperation below the surface._

_“Oh darling, do you really not see it?” she says. She really just wants to hug him. The cloud has come to stay, it seems. It is joined by a quizzical expression._

_“See what? Really, Rhee, could you not be so cryptic? It’s annoying.”_

_Rhiannon does roll her eyes now, but she still manages to keep her exasperation from her voice. “Derren dear, you really are a lovely boy and I know there are lots of girls who would return you interest.” (And now it is Derren’s turn to roll his eyes.) “I’m just not sure that a boy is exactly who Lucy is looking for.”_

_“I’ll have you know I’m a man not a_ boy _,” Derren says with some heat but no real rancour._

_And really, she should have known that that point would be well and truly missed. She sighs deeply. There is a click and a slight squeal of hinges. The library door (is it really so rarely used?) creaks ponderously open. Rhee’s heart skips a beat. She had thought that that was a mere turn of phrase, silly, meaningless words from the stories, but no. Edmund, looking tired, disheveled, his dark hair matted, his clothing travel-stained, stands in the doorway and simply beams at her._

_Derren doesn’t have to look behind him. One look at Rhee’s face and he is on his feet._

_“Well, it’s been lovely. Perhaps you can chase me around a chess board again some time. Edmund._ Your Majesty _,” he says, finally looking back. “Welcome home. We’ve missed you. Some more than others, perhaps.” And he turns the most infuriating smirk on Rhee as he says_ that _. “I shall leave you two to get, um, reacquainted.”_

_Rhiannon would have kicked him but she finds she can’t stop beaming. Edmund has a slight cut about one eye. The eye itself is swollen but his grin is easy, care free. She grins back._

**

_“Shall I be mother?” Mr Tumnus asks with a smile._

_He doesn't wait for a reply, pouring – one, two, three – into intricately decorated china teacups. A little milk in each - “there are people who will tell you the milk should go first. Those people are wrong” - and sugar for Mr Beaver, and he's done. Mrs Beaver takes the proffered cup and saucer gratefully._

_“Thank you, Mr Tumnus.” She settles further into the armchair, shoulders slumping. “I think that if I was to tell you how much I need this I wouldn't have time to drink it.”_

_“Ah yes,” Mr Tumnus says, feeling much the same. “The Christmas season is ever a whirl. So much to do. And who knows, perhaps Aslan will grace our celebrations this year.”_

_Mr Beaver snuffles – the first sound he's made in quite some time. “Ha, you say that every year and he never comes. He'll come when he's needed and not before.” He takes a long, indelicate gulp of his tea. The cup is almost empty when he lowers it. “You know as well as I do, he's not a _tame_ lion.”_

_Tumnus nods his response, knowing it to be true but disappointed still. Mrs Beaver reaches out a paw to pinch her husband._

_“Who's been getting under your fur then, Mr Beaver? There's no call to be rude now, is there? Especially not to old friends.”_

_Mr Beaver says nothing for a moment, looking merely rueful. And then, as if in explanation, “I miss our dam. It's not right to abandon the old place for so long. Who knows what sort of state it will be in now?”_

_Mr Beaver pats her husband's arm. Mr Tumnus nods his own sympathy._

_“I know what you mean, old friend. I've had a hankering to go home recently, if only for a visit. Perhaps when spring comes we can go together.” He doesn't say, though he thinks it, that, so recently returned from Underland, no force in Narnia or Over the Sea could send him abroad again at least until the days are much longer and much, much warmer._

_“Aslan knows how much there'll be to do to get them back up to scratch again.” Despite the pessimism in his words, Mr Beaver appears to view the prospect with relish._

_Mrs Beaver struggles out of the plump old armchair. (Tumnus has done much to make his apartments feel homely which, for him, has always meant comfy, and cluttered.) She pours Mr Beaver another cup of tea and tops up her own. She takes a much more dainty sip than her husband._

_“Well, it's all very well talking about what you're going to do 5 or 6 months away but really. Christmas is in two days. Don't you think there are more important things to be worrying about. The Christmas ball won't organise itself you know.”_

_“It's just that you're so efficient, Mrs Beaver,” Tumnus says, a twinkle in his eye. “You always make it seem like it does.”_

_She glares at him, but she can't help looking just a little pleased._


End file.
